, Inchie," I said, in reply to his statement that it was
child's play to deceive the Westerner, "you too are sometimes deceived
by us. I know of a gentleman in England who brought over to Japan a
large collection of modern porcelain of English manufacture, and by
clever handling he imposed the whole lot on an artist at Osaka in
exchange for some rare old Satsuma." Then I enlarged on the hardship of
the story. I explained how the Englishman had persuaded the Osaka
painter to give up all the rare old Satsuma that he had collected during
the course of a lifetime in exchange for this valueless English
porcelain, remarking that it was wrong and almost cruel to take such a
mean advantage of the poor Osaka merchant. "And what do you say to that
for a clever fraud, Inchie?" I asked. Inchie only held his sides and
laughed. At last he said, "Oh, he berry number one clever man, that at
Osaka"; for, it seemed, he knew all about the Englishman and his
porcelain, and also about the Satsuma. The painter, indeed, was known
all over Japan by his clever imitations of old Satsuma, and it was also
generally known that he had given this English gentleman a collection of
imitations that he had painted himself in exchange for the English
porcelain, which was interesting to him to study. The person to be
pitied in Inchie's estimation was the biter bit; and he was "number one
sorry for that Englishman."

Whenever any one fresh arrived in Tokio--young, old, pretty, or plain--I
always sent him or her to Inchie's store to buy curios. Such streams of
people besieged him, all so different and some so quaint, that, although
they were good for trade, Inchie was very uncertain as to whether they
were good for me, and was anxious to have the matter cleared up. "You
have many friends," he would say, eyeing me suspiciously.

[Illustration: FINISHING TOUCHES]

At length the crisis was reached which broke down the barriers of
Inchie's reserve and thoroughly upset him, in the shape of a fair
bulbous woman, who was a terror! I was sitting in the reading-room of
the hotel one day, believing that I was alone, when a twangy voice broke
in upon the silence. "Just fancy, he shot himself for love of me,"
mentioning a name in Yokohama. "Really," I observed, feeling embarrassed
(he must have been mad, I thought). "Yes; he blew his brains out. Have a
drink?" she went on, in an exuberance of generosity. I said, "I think
not." She replied that if I would not she would