“That shall be their punishment,” says Motu. “Never again in life shall they set foot on the shores of our land; never shall their unworthy eyes gaze on its beauties, never again behold the majesty of sacred Fuji Yama. In foreign lands, far from the graves of their ancestors, shall they pass away, and in their native villages their names shall be spoken with bitter words and reviling. That is my will in the matter.” While Motu spoke his face had been stern, but not cruel or vindictive. He had spoken like a great and just judge passing sentence on the guilty.
Now he turned to us—the four of us, for Plunk and Binney were with us again, rumpled and battered a bit, with their clothes ready to go into the rag-bag.
“My friends,” says he, “let me present to you Count Takisuji, minister from the Imperial Court of Japan to the United States.”
Well, sir, you could have bought me for a cent. Here was a boy smaller than me, and a foreign minister went down on his knees and risked getting a sliver in his nose at sight of him. I felt all fluffy inside. None of us had ever seen a great man before—a man great enough to be the representative of an empire at the capital of our country—and now that we saw him we discovered we’d been hobnobbing with and bossing and fooling around with a fellow that such a man bowed and scraped to. It was sure amazing.
Motu went on speaking: “These four, Count,” says he, “are the best and bravest friends I have ever known. They came upon me in trouble—a foreigner, poor, wearing the clothes I now wear. But they asked no questions, sought no reward, befriended me out of the largeness of their hearts for the honor of their fatherland. Motu I was to them, and nothing more—a poor Japanese boy who needed friends. They took me in, fed me, gave me lodging. Then when he came”—here Motu nodded toward The Man Who Will Come—“they fought for me—fought for me like warriors of ancient days when men were greater and wiser and stronger than they are to-day.” Then he set to and told them the whole story from beginning to end. He didn’t omit a thing. He told about Mark Tidd’s strategy and about my swimming and about the bravery and faithfulness of Binney and Plunk, and everything. Then he introduced each of us by name.
“Here,” says he, “is Mark Tidd, our general. But for the wisdom and cunning of his brain your coming would have been useless.”
“There wouldn’t have been any comin’,” says I, forgetting myself and interrupting.
The count frowned, but Motu smiled and asked why.
Then I told him about the letter Mark wrote to the Japanese minister, and how he had figured out that Motu was somebody important.
The minister nodded. “It was the letter brought me,” says he.