“Saved his life, didn't you? He spun me a great yarn one day in camp.”
Craven laughed and shrugged. “Yoshio has an Oriental imagination and quite a flair for romance. I did pull him out of a hole in 'Frisco but he was putting up a very tidy little show on his own account. He's the toughest little beggar I've ever come across and doesn't know the meaning of fear. If I'm ever in a big scrap I hope I shall have Yoshio behind me.”
“You seem to be pretty well known over yonder,” said Atherton with a vague movement of his head toward the shore.
“It is not a big town and the foreign population is not vast. Besides, there are traditions. I am the second Barry Craven to live in Yokohama—my father lived several years and finally died here. He was obsessed with Japan.”
“And with the Japanese?”
“And with the Japanese.”
Atherton frowned at the glowing end of his cigar.
“Nina and I ran down to see Craven Towers when we were on our wedding trip in England last year,” he said at length with seeming irrelevance. “Your agent, Mr. Peters, ran us round.”
“Good old Peters,” murmured Craven lazily. “The place would have gone to the bow-wows long ago if it hadn't been for him. He adored my mother and has the worst possible opinion of me. But he's a loyal old bird, he probably endowed me with all the virtues for your benefit.”
But Atherton ignored the comment. He polished his eyeglass vigorously and screwed it firmly into position.