One balmy day in June, when the woods were so still that scarce a leaf stirred on the branches of the trees that shaded a spot along the Hayama where the two friends were fishing and smoking together, they were aroused from a pleasing silence by voices on the road which ran curving along the river bank only a short distance from where they sat. They were women's voices, and they were raised in protest. The Englishman lazily puffed on at his pipe, saying laconically:
"Some damned jinrikisha man, I suppose. Got a nasty habit, some of them, of demanding extra fare of women when they get them well on the road, and then, if they don't pay, won't carry them any further."
The American turned to Shiku:
"Go and see what you can do, Shiku."
Shiku ran lithely through the small bush that separated them from the road. After a time he came back, his face flushed and indignant.
"The lady has forgot to bring more money than the fare, and now the runners will charge more."
Sinclair stopped watching the line at the end of his rod. He put his hand carelessly into his trousers pocket, pulling out a handful of small change. "How much is it, Shiku?"
"Fifteen sen."
"Here you are."
"Wait a moment," said the Englishman, slowly, pulling in his line. "I'll just step over with you, and punch his head for him."