“Politics, and an occasional dramatic criticism,” said Morning.
“You know that never sat easy—that day in Rosario——”
“Didn’t it?”
“I was down to Batangas three days later—unpacking saddle-bags, and found Mio Amigo No. 1. Deeper down I found its mate.... They’re common in Luzon as old Barlow knives when we were kids.... I made a scene about that knife—with my own deep down in my own duffel.... I suppose you’ve forgotten.”
“No—I haven’t.”
“You were pretty decent about it. It was a nasty thing—even to speak about it as I did. You see, the inscription rather appealed to kid-intelligence in my case, and I thought it was unique, instead of the popular idea of a cheap Filipino knife.”
“Kennard took it seriously, didn’t he?” said Morning.
“You mean at the time?... Yes, I couldn’t understand that exactly.”
Morning decided not to speak of that day’s relation to Tokyo five years later.
“Well,” said Calvert, after a pause, “I hunted you up to say I was an ass, and to give you back your knife. The pair have been smelling up my things around the world for a long time.”