“No?” Amoya squeaked pleasantly.
“No—not—no must do.”
Morning waved his arm, signifying solitary and peaceful enjoyment of the night air and contemplation of the dark city. These night journeys had become the cooling features of his day. Amoya was a living marvel, the rickshaw runner incomparable—tireless, eager, very proud of his work; too old to be spoiled. He was old; indeed, enough to be Morning’s father, but his limbs were young, and his great trunk full of power unabated.
The night was dark, damp, no moon nor star. The cold which was almost tempted thinly to crust the open drains, was welcome to the man’s nostrils. Amoya warmed and gathered speed. Up the broad Shiba Road he sped, past the far dim lights of the highway, past Shiba temple, the tombs of the Ronins, past the cavalry barracks (by far the best joke on Japan), and the last of the known land-marks.
Now Morning suffered strange temptations. Few white men who have lived any time in Japan have escaped. A Japanese house with every creature comfort was within his resources even now; wholesome food, sake, rice-beer were cheap; excellent service, even such service as Amoya’s was laughably cheap. Why not sink into this life and quit the agony?... Why did he think of it as sinking into this life? Why did he agonize anyway?... There was always a fresh sore on him somewhere. Surely other men did not burn back and forth every day as he did.
The shame came again. He ordered Amoya back within an hour, left him at the door of the Inn, drenched with sweat and delighted with his extra fare.
Morning slid open the door of his room. Nothing could be seen but the glow of the brazier, yet he knew some one was within.... A series of mattresses and robes had been taken out from a chest of drawers and made up on the matting. The women as usual, had waited for him to go out. He lit the lamp.
A little Japanese maid-servant was curled up asleep at the foot of his bed. Morning sat down upon the cushion and mused curiously.... It was thus that Naomi had ordered Ruth to steal into the couch at the feet of Boaz. Ruth had found a home, and was not long allowed to make herself glad with mere gleanings.... It was this sort of thing that made Morning hate Japan. In the eyes of the old, limp-backed Inn-keeper, this child was a woman. He would not have dared to delegate a mere maid-servant to ply the ancient art with his guest, but there were extenuations here: the delicacy and subtlety of the little one’s falling asleep, and the child-like freshness of the offering. It was this last that stung Morning, because he knew the old Japanese found a commercial value in this very adolescence.
He had smiled at this child during the day, and asked her name—Moto-san—and repeated it after her, as one might have done the name of a child. She had just come in from the fields, reported the bath-boy who preëmpted any leakage of English whatsoever, and who was frequently on the verge of being understood.... Her hands showed labor, and she was not ashen as the Japanese beauties must be, but sweet and fragrant—and so little.
“It is the same the world over, when they come in from the fields,” he said. “Good God, she ought to be sleeping with her dolls.... Poor little bit of a girl in a man’s country ... and they sent you in here to keep me from night-riding. One cannot complain of hospitality ... Moto-san... Moto-san....”