The bogle was plucking blossoms as hard as she could and in the profuse manner of childhood. She and the azaleas made a sight for sore eyes.
She might have been seven or eight, dressed in a blue kimono with a scarlet obi, hair black as ebony shavings, tightly drawn off the forehead and held up with a tortoiseshell comb—the “germ of a woman.”
Her back was turned to Leslie, and as he got within arm’s length of the quaint and delicious little figure he did just what you or I might have done—bent down, seized her up, and kissed her.
The bogle dropped her flowers and gave a shriek, a most distinctly human shriek.
“He’s kessed her!” cried M’Gourley, addressing the azaleas, the cypress trees, and all Japan.
Then he stood in agony, held to the spot by the sight of Leslie and the bogle making friends.
It didn’t seem to take long, for presently he returned through the azaleas triumphant, carrying her in his arms.
“Here’s your bogle,” said he, placing her on the dusty road where, with all the gravity of the Japanese child, she made a deep obeisance to M’Gourley. That gentleman returned the compliment with a short, sharp nod.
“I’m awa’ to Nikko,” said he in the hard, irritable voice of a person who is desirous of avoiding an undesirable acquaintance, gazing at Leslie and steadily ignoring the lady in blue who was now holding on to Leslie’s right leg, contemplating M’Gourley, and sucking the tip of a taper and tiny forefinger all at the same time. “I’m awa’ to Nikko. ’Tis no place for a mon like me. Never was I used to the company of fules—”
“Don’t be an ass! Speak to her; you have the tongue, and I haven’t.”