That surely was some bow
"There were no screens up before the doors of that Japanese saloon. The saloon, the front room of the house, was fifteen feet wide, so was the door—that was an open-faced saloon, opening onto the street the width of the room.
"And customers came and went, working in around the automobile. A husband and wife came in and sat down on a matted platform. Hubby ordered one big tumbler of saki—the kind they had the biggest run on was as thick as buttermilk, looked just like buttermilk, and was ladled out of a big crock by a little Japanese barmaid.
"She'd fill the glasses so full that they would heap up at the brim—hubby carried the glass carefully to his mouth so's not to spill any, drank off a swallow, and handed it to his wife, who hit it for another swallow, and back and forth they passed that glass, taking a swallow a trip until they had finished it, and they walked away, to make an afternoon call, perhaps.
"Everyone paid for his own drink—there was no treating and no drunkenness.
"Everything that went on in that saloon was as open to the public gaze as the sun, and 'Pennsylvania' and I decided that the saloon business in the United States was one thing, and the way we were seeing it conducted in Japan an entirely different thing.
"At five o'clock our machine was ready for us and we left our saki house friends.
"We invited them to come to America. There are two front yards in America in which those folks are welcome to camp, if they ever come. One in Missouri and one in Pennsylvania. We both told them so, and that the freedom of two homes and the best those homes afforded would be theirs."
"Missouri" paused in his story, and "Pennsylvania" nodded twice and said, "You bet."