BOTCHAN
won’t take more than a minute, and he went in. Looking about my feet, I found a pair of thin, matted wooden clogs, and I heard some one in the house saying, “Now we’re banzai.” I noticed that the visitor was Clown. Nobody but Clown could make such a squeaking voice and wear such clogs as are worn by cheap actors.
After a while Red Shirt appeared at the door with a lamp in his hand, and said, “Come in; it’s no other than Mr. Yoshikawa.”
“This is good enough,” I said, “it won’t take long.” I looked at his face which was the color of a boiled lobster. He seemed to have been drinking with Clown.
“You told me that you would raise my salary, but I’ve changed my mind, and have come here to decline the offer.”
Red Shirt, thrusting out the lamp forward, and intently staring at me, was unable to answer at the moment. He appeared blank. Did he think it strange that here was one fellow, only one in
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