Mr. Moto Is So Sorry Read Free Page B

asked.
    â€œOh yes,” said Mr. Moto. He lives in a small palace and keeps camels. He has an army too. The Mongolians are very very jolly.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear it,” Calvin said.
    â€œOh yes,” said Mr. Moto. “You will like it all so very, very much, that is if there is no trouble.”
    â€œTrouble?” Calvin repeated.
    Mr. Moto laughed.
    â€œHa ha,” said Mr. Moto. “I hope so very much that you will have no trouble.”
    â€œWell,” said Calvin, “it’s a complicated world. I think I’ll go back and try to get some sleep.”
    â€œYes,” said Mr. Moto, “I shall go back too, I think. It has been so very pleasant. Thank you very much. You first, please, Mr. Gates.”
    When Calvin walked down the stairs to the passageway with Mr. Moto just behind him, he felt the bewilderment he had experienced before when he had come in contact with an Oriental mind. He was sure that the conversation had not been aimless, although it led to nowhere. Something in Mr. Moto’s interest was disturbing. Even Mr. Moto’s footsteps behind him were disturbing. He took his key from his pocket to open his stateroom door and the key did not turn in the lock.
    â€œExcuse me,” said Mr. Moto, “is there something wrong?”
    â€œIt’s the key,” Calvin told him; “it doesn’t seem to work.”
    â€œSo sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “The key does not work? How very very funny.”
    But it did not seem to Calvin that it was very funny.
    â€œLook here,” he said, turning on Mr. Moto, “what’s all this about?”
    â€œI do not know,” said Mr. Moto. “We will go and find the boy.”
    The boy was still asleep in his chair near the dining saloon. Mr. Moto spoke sharply and the boy’s eyes opened.
    â€œThe boy will know how,” said Mr. Moto. “Let the boy try the key, please. Thank you very much.”
    The boy turned the key. The lock clicked and he opened the stateroom door.
    â€œHa ha,” said Mr. Moto. “It is all right now, I think.”
    â€œThank you,” said Calvin. “It’s all right now.”
    â€œSo very glad,” Mr. Moto said. “Good night.”
    Calvin Gates shot the bolt of his stateroom door again and looked grimly at his trunk and bags beneath the berth. When he had first tried the door someone had been inside; and now whoever it was had gone; and Mr. Moto was looking for a cigarette case with a design of little birds upon it, lots of little birds.
    Whatever it was that Mr. Moto wanted, it was no affair of his, and he was able to go to sleep. He was able to dream of pigtails and of places of which he had no knowledge, and through his dreams he could hear Mr. Moto’s voice.
    â€œSo very nice,” Mr. Moto was saying, “so very, very nice.”

CHAPTER III
    At the rear of the train which left Fusan the next morning there was an observation car where Japanese businessmen and Japanese army officers sat and smoked and talked in sharp loud voices. The road for the most part followed river beds, back from which rose brownish hills and bluish mountains. There were green patches of farms near the river, but for the most part the country was bleak and rugged, and even the highest hills were bare of trees. That bareness gave the impression of a land which had been lived in for millenniums without much change. The Korean houses were like something from the stone age, round mud huts with curious mushroom-shaped thatch roofs. White-clad bearded men stood near them smoking pipes. White-robed farmers walked along the paths with their hands clasped behind them, wearing high black varnished hats perched airily above their heads.
    It may have been because of the total unfamiliarity of the scene outside that Calvin experienced an increasing sensation of self-consciousness. He had not realized the extent of this malaise until he saw the girl whom