"Why Samurai? I had supposed this once belonged to some prehistoric giant who could waft it as do ladies their bamboo fans, when they brush the dust from old hearts—as the Spanish poet sang."
"That fan is interesting enough," was the doctor's reply. "When a Samurai, one of the warrior caste Japanese, was invited to the house of a doubtful friend, he carried this fan as a weapon of defence. Compelled to leave his two swords behind a screen, he could close this fighting machine and parry the attack of his hospitable enemy until he reached his swords. Just try it and see what a formidable weapon it would prove." He took up the fan, shut it, and swung it over his head.
"Look out for the bottles!" cried Effinghame.
"Never fear, old chap. And did you notice the head?"
"That's what most puzzled me."
"No wonder. I too was puzzled—until I found the solution. And it took me some years—yes, all the time you were in Paris learning how to paint and live." He paused, and his face became gloomy.
"Well—well?"
"There is no well. It's a damned bad fan, that iron one, and I don't mind saying so to you."
"Superstitious—you! Where is your Haeckel, your Wundt, your Weismann? Do you still believe in the infallibility of the germ-plasm? Has the fan brought you ill-luck? The fact is, Arn, ever since your return from China you've been a strange bird!" It was Effinghame's turn to laugh.
"Don't say another word." The doctor was vivacious in a moment and poured out wine. They both lighted cigars. Slowly puffing, Arn took up the fan and spread it open.