The missionary met me at the door and I told him who I was—a wayfaring man in Japan, and would he show me somewhat of his work?
He would, and gladly. If I had been a long lost brother or a wealthy uncle with a will to make, he couldn't have been more cordial—a keen young man of thirty-six or thirty-eight I found this missionary.
"Do you mind walking?" he asked.
"I have a team of rikisha coolies at your gate," I said.
"Well," he replied, "our work is scattered over Kioto. We can reach it by trolleys and walking, with an occasional rikisha ride between trolley lines, better than to try to do it all by rikisha from here. Better pay off your coolies and dismiss them."
"I've chartered them for the day," I said.
We started out to see the missionary work in Kioto, that young missionary and I.
At the gate I told my boys to loaf, or play, or fish, or pick up fares which they might pocket for themselves—they were on my payroll for the day—but to report for duty there at the gate at 1 P. M.
The missionary and I walked a mile and passed two of his mission churches on the way, where services were being held, and which through the week were used for schools and meetings; the missionary dispensing tracts as we walked along. That young missionary seemed to exude tracts—I didn't know one missionary could hold so many.
We boarded a trolley, and all the passengers got a tract. We dismounted at a corner to look over another mission church where the natives were holding a meeting; a little walk and we boarded another trolley and the missionary started in to give the passengers tracts.