Yes, child, I understand. Sen is a title, a term of respect, and you like to show your friend Frank all the honour you can, so you call him Frank Sen."
And Omassa with unconscious slanginess gravely answered: "You right on to it at first try. My boss" (her manager Kimoto) "find me baby in Japan, with very bad old man. He gamble all time. I not know why he have me, he not my old man, but he sell me for seven year to Kimoto, and Kimoto teach me jump, turn, twist, climb, and he send my money all to old man—all. We go Mexico—South America—many Islands—to German land, and long time here in this most big America—and the world so big—and then I so little Japan baby—I no play—I no sing—I know nothing what to do—and just one person in this big lonesomeness make a kindness to me—my Frank Sen—just one man—just one woman in all world make goodness to me—my Frank Sen and my nurse-lady," and she stroked
with reverent little fingers the white hand resting on the bed beside her.
"What was he like, your Frank?" asked the nurse.
"Oh, he one big large American man—he not laugh many times loud, but he laugh in he blue eye. He got brown mustache and he hair all short, thick, wavy—like puppy dog's back. He poor—he not perform in circus, oh, no! He work for put up tents, for wagon, for horses. He ver good man for fight too—he smash man that hurt horse—he smash man that kick dog or push me, Japan baby. Oh, he best man in all the world" (the exquisite Madame Butterfly was not known yet, so Omassa was not quoting). "He tell me I shall not say some words, 'damn' and 'hell' and others more long, more bad, and he tell me all about that 'hell' and where is—and how you get in for steal, for lie, for hurt things not so big as you—and how you can't get out again where there is cool place for change—and
he smooth my hair and pat my shoulder, for he know Japan people don't ever be kissed—and he call me one word I cannot know."
She shook her head regretfully. "He call me 'poor little wave'—why poor little wave—wave that mean water?" she sighed. "I can't know why Frank Sen call me that."
But quick-witted Mrs. Holmes guessed the word had been "waif"—poor little waif, and she began dimly to comprehend the big-hearted, rough tent-man, who had tried to guard this little foreign maid from the ignorance and evil about her.
"But," resumed Omassa, with perfect conviction, "Frank Sen meaned goodness for me when he called me 'wave'—I know that. What you think that big American man do for help me little Japan baby—with no sense? Well, I will tell you. When daylight circus-show over, he take me by hand and lead me to shady place between tents—he sit down—put me at he knee,
and in what you call primer-book with he long brown finger he point out and make me know all those big fat letters—yes, he do that. Other mens make of him fun—and he only laugh; but when they say he my father and say of me names, he lay down primer and fight. When he lay out the whole deck, he come back and wash he hands and show me some more letters. Oh, I very stupid Japan baby; but at last I know all, and then he harness some together and make d-o-g say dog, and n-o say no, and so it come that one day next week was going to be his fête-day,—what you call birsday,—and I make very big large secret."