One Sunday they made an early start and went farther afield, to the Hakone region. At Miyanoshita they left the little electric train, and lunched Japanese fashion at the Goldfish Inn. Then they wandered on down, along the road winding between the steeply sloping mountain sides, drinking in the coolness, enjoying the sweep of green bamboo and maple trees clinging to the rocky walls above them, the murmur and gurgle of the stream rushing, foaming, over great bowlders far below.
At Tonegawa where they went to the station to take the train back to Tokyo, they found a group of excited people on the platform. They were talking, gesticulating, children with arms filled with wooden trick boxes and other souvenirs regarding curiously their agitated elders. The station master was telling his story over and over again, repeating it to every new arrival, arguing and explaining. Yes, they might go to Odawara in the electric train, of course, but there was no way of going beyond that, to Tokyo. The steam trains were not running. Yes, they had stopped; they had all stopped. The entire Imperial Railways system had stopped. It was a strike, a universal strike. No, he knew very well that that had never happened in Japan before; but it had happened now, just as it had in America and England. He couldn't help it. They could go to Odawara for all he cared, but there was scant hotel accommodation to be had there. They had better stay in Hakone where there were many hotels. Yes, the trains were not running—he began to explain again to some newcomers—there was no getting back to Tokyo at present.
"Well, evidently we are in for it, Sadako-san. The man is right. We had better find some place here. I have heard there are good hotels in this village." She had placed her hand on his arm, seemed irresolute, frightened. "You are not afraid, are you, Sadako-san?"
"No, I'm not afraid of you. Come, let us go."
They found an inn in Tonegawa, a huge building with great wings, many-storied, striving up the hillside, seeming, like the trees, to cling precariously thereto. The inn people were a little doubtful. Yes, no. They had only one room left and that was really not a room at all; it was a banquet hall, not used for sleeping. The other hotels? No, they were crowded, too, with the unexpected rush of holiday seekers left stranded here. Yes, he might have the big room. Other refugees were approaching down the road. Kent made up his mind. "Shikataganai, Sadako-san, we must make the best of it. All right, I'll take it."
A maid servant led them through long passages, up steps, along a long passage, up more steps, then through more corridors and stairways, ever upwards, bewilderingly; it seemed as if they must be mounting into the clouds. Finally he noticed overhanging eaves; thank God, this must be the top story; they could mount no higher. The girl led them down a passage, drew aside shoji, ushered them into a vast room occupying the entire width of the building, showing a great tokonoma recess with a splendid scroll picture, a bronze statuette of Ebisu, the fattest and jolliest of the Seven Lucky Gods, grinning them welcome. There were great gilded screens, several huge mother-of-pearl inlaid hibachi. Quite evidently this was a hall for special feasts.
The maid brought tea and comfortable kimono. "The bath?" she inquired. This was a hot-spring hotel, sought by people from all over Japan for its natural hot mineral water. "I shall get dinner ready while you are in the bath," she added, evidently with the thought that this foreigner might not know the common custom.
"I want to arrange my hair first. There is no mirror here." Sadako was already in the doorway. "Please excuse me a moment."
She disappeared. He waited, not knowing just what to do. It was embarrassing, this bath suggestion. The maid became impatient. "Will you not take your bath now?" she insisted. Very well, he would solve the difficulty by going first. He got out of his clothes and into the kimono. The maid led him down through the maze of corridors, miles it seemed, to the ground floor, into a hall-like space, with shelves for clothing, where were standing half a dozen persons, men and women, half nude or nude, getting ready for or leaving the baths. He turned to the servant. "Where?"
"Oh, anywhere," she indicated a row of doors. "There are three baths, but they are all full. It is no use to wait. There are so many guests that there will be no empty rooms. Please enter." She was in a hurry, began to untie his girdle. It was embarrassing. In other inns where he had been, the rule separating the sexes had been observed. Still, they all seemed so unconcerned; he must do in Japan as the Japanese do.