“That’s about the situation,” O’Neil replied, “but as far as I can see there ain’t no sense in fighting. Can’t we leave these little fellows alone with their troubles? Ain’t we got enough to do in those South American republics, with them at each other’s throats every month?”
“Yes,” Bill Marley acknowledged thoughtfully. “Why does any one want to spoil a nice place like Japan by going to war? I’d rather make a liberty here than any place I know—outside of the Bowery.”
O’Neil paid this answer but scant attention. He had seen the European ahead fairly run down the street and become lost within the crowd. Upon approaching nearer, a piece of white paper caught the sailor’s eye as it lay on the tiny sidewalk, almost on the edge of the crowd. Had it been dropped by the European in his haste? The sailors picked it up, and Marley shoved it down the bosom of his shirt for safe-keeping. It was a long white envelope addressed to the “Editor of the ‘Shimbunshi.’” O’Neil had read the inscription as Marley held it toward him.
“That’s for a yellow journal published in Tokyo. Hold on to it, Bill,” he instructed. “There’s a row on here,” he added excitedly as they pushed their way forward.
The two men soon realized that this crowd was more than a simple assemblage on a street corner. From a swaying motion inside it appeared that a struggle was in progress at its centre. They now again saw the stranger pushing his way through, his head towering above the shorter Japanese around him.
“I hope it ain’t a rikisha fight,” Bill said eagerly, as he hurried after his companion. “These rikisha coolies is mighty mean when you don’t give ’em three times the fare.”
“Come on, Bill, quick,” O’Neil exclaimed, but there was scant need for urging. Both had seen enough to know that what was happening was a great deal more serious than a rikisha fight. The midshipmen were in danger from a mob.
“Put your shoulder in the small of my back and shove,” O’Neil cried excitedly, as he dived into the crowd thickest about the machine, scattering the people left and right. They were at the wheel of the motor car before the mob could take in the meaning of this human battering-ram.
“What’s the row, sir?” O’Neil asked hurriedly, turning toward the crowd and pulling up his sleeves in a businesslike way.
“We ran over a man,” Phil replied in a nervous voice. “I hope he isn’t dead. They took him from under the wheels and carried him over there,” indicating a small house about the door of which many curious people had collected. “Can’t we persuade the crowd to let him go on?” he added anxiously. “They would have killed him a moment ago.”