There was quite a bit more palavering, which ended up by Motu asking us to come on with him to the count’s summer home and stay there. He said he’d have to scoot down to Washington, but would be back in a day or two. We talked it over, and Motu persuaded us.
“We’ve got to see Mr. Ames, who owns the h-h-hotel,” says Mark. “It’s been damaged some. We’ve got to take care of that.”
“That shall be my care,” says the count. “He shall be amply paid for all harm.”
Motu was looking at The Man and his followers. Of a sudden he took a step toward them:
“Punishment of the body you escape because of the nature of this matter, but punishment of the soul you shall not escape. One and all you are traitors to your land, and you”—he pointed scornfully at The Man—“are the most despicable because if you would you could be of value to your emperor. You have cast aside your honor and your manhood. Your names shall be spoken with loathing. My sentence you have heard—never again shall you see or set foot on the soil of your native land. Now go.”
Not one of them opened his mouth, but every one scurried off as fast as he could travel. Probably they were afraid Motu might change his mind and boil them in oil, or do whatever disagreeable thing is customary in such cases over in Japan.
They didn’t take the road, but started to break and run into the woods. But they didn’t. Just then something more unexpected than a Japanese minister happened. Those woods all of a sudden came to life. The bushes just fairly seethed and out came charging about twenty of the biggest farmers—good old American farmers—I ever saw. And every one of them had his sleeves rolled up for business. Behind them, on foot this time, came the old fellow with the mule. Mark was right. That old fellow had gone off and given warning.
What Motu said to The Man about escaping punishment of the body was considerable of a mistake. I should say it was. Those big farmers just came down on The Man and his followers like a roof was falling on them. Why, the Japanese didn’t have a chance even to start to fight back. In about two seconds every last one of them was grabbed and held fast by a couple of men in overalls. The farmers led their prisoners over toward us.
“Howdy!” said the man that was ahead. “Heard as how there was some furriners botherin’ boys over here, so we come to see.”
“Much obliged,” says Mark. And he introduced the farmers to Motu and the count, and you can guess those farmers were pretty surprised. They don’t bump into a minister and a real live prince every day. But it didn’t flabbergast them any. No, sir. I was proud of them. Somehow they seemed to get dignified and to look like somebody in particular. I didn’t understand it for a minute, but pretty soon I saw what it was—it was good American citizenship. They knew who and what they were and they were proud of it. Princes or ministers couldn’t make them feel ashamed, for they knew in their hearts that princes and ministers were just men like themselves.