The proprietor stood behind a raised counter and directed the service, collecting the bills as those who had satisfied their hunger paid and went their way. O’Neil gave his order to a waitress and at the same time slipped a hastily penciled note into the Japanese girl’s hand, pointing to her foreign master. The sailors watched him read the note and then glance up at them, following the girl’s pointing finger. In a few seconds he was wringing O’Neil’s hand. “Well, shipmate, how are you?” he exclaimed. There was real pleasure in “Billy” Williams’ face. “This supper is all on me,” he cried gladly. “It’s been a long time since you and me have been together, and there ain’t nothing in the house too good for Jack O’Neil.” O’Neil smiled good humoredly, and the three men sat down at the little table. Williams called up an assistant, and sent him to take his place at the cash drawer. “Making money?” This from O’Neil. “Well, I ain’t losing any, but I miss our own ships,” Williams replied, still smiling. “The ‘Alaska’s’ the first we’ve had for nearly a year. American sailors certainly spend their money nobly. The foreign sailors make the eagle squeal on every dollar they hold before letting go of it.” “Where’s the madam?” O’Neil asked. His eyes were searching the crowd. In his mind’s eye he saw a graceful Japanese woman of some ten years ago, Haru-san by name, whom Williams had married and settled down after receiving his honorable discharge from the United States navy. “She’s back in the house,” Williams answered in an offhand way. “She don’t come into the restaurant any more. If you’ve got time, we’ll go back and see her after you’ve finished supper. She often speaks of you.” An appetizing supper had been set before the two sailors, and they without ceremony commenced the attack. Williams sat watching them in silence, his smile broadening at the evident appreciation in his friends’ faces of the good fare they were eating. “Billy, you’ve been here in Tokyo long enough to know who’s who?” O’Neil asked the question, shoving back his chair in sign of the end of his meal. “If there’s any one I don’t know, you can bet that Haru-san does,” was Williams’ quick reply. “Then, who is this fellow Robert Impey?” O’Neil asked eagerly. Williams shook his head. “Don’t know the party, never comes here,” was his answer. “Oh! he ain’t our kind,” O’Neil returned with a smile to set the matter straight. “He belongs to the court set, drives his own automobile, knows the American ambassador.” Williams appeared to be deep in thought. “Believe I have heard of him, but don’t know anything against him, if that’s what you mean,” he answered. O’Neil signed by nods of his head that Williams had guessed rightly. “Hey! George,” Williams called, standing up and beckoning to the owner of the name sitting in the midst of half a dozen American sailors at a table across the room. “Come here a minute. I want you to meet an old friend of mine.”