“Of that I know even less,” replied his guest, so mournfully that Chohachi hastened to reassure him. “Some way shall be found to boil the pot even if we have to hunt the magic paddle of the Oni.”
So the tradesman thought and thought.
“What can this dear fellow do?” he asked himself.
“It must be something of the easiest for he seems not to have much thought for trading. I have it! He shall be a waste-paper man! A boy or a simpleton could do that!”
So he purchased a light pole of bamboo with two baskets at the end, and a pair of bamboo sticks. He called the Samurai “Chobei,” for Shindo was too fine a name for a waste-paper man, and the Samurai was started in business.
The first day Chobei lost himself, and had to pay a man to guide him home. He had bought no waste paper and Chohachi laughed at him, and scolded, too, saying,
“Call out! No one will know what you want if you walk about the streets in silence like a monk!”
Chobei was anxious to do all things right, for it pained him to be depending upon the good trader, and it hurt him still more to think of little O Tsuiu San sitting all day over her embroidery, trying to earn a few coins with which to boil the pot.
So, in order to grow used to the sound of his own voice, he went to an open lot, where there was not a house in sight, and shouted, “Waste paper! waste paper!” all day until he was hoarse. The street boys thought he was mad, and they laughed at him and threw stones. Then he went home more discouraged than ever, and Chohachi, choked with laughter, explained again patiently,
“See, good Samurai, go into the back streets; rich people do not sell waste papers. Talk with the women, engage them with pleasant words and flattery, and then say, ‘Perhaps you have some waste paper to sell.’”