Phil’s quick eye had seen the whole affair, and indignantly he jumped to the ground to see if the sailorman whose jinrikisha had been so ruthlessly bowled over had received injuries. The Japanese onlookers, quick to resent injustice, had formed a solid wall about the machine, their intention evidently being not to allow the culprits to escape until the police had investigated the damages and injuries. Phil helped the sailor occupant of the overturned jinrikisha to his feet. He was dazed but unhurt. One of the man’s friends had excitedly taken the driver of the machine to task for his recklessness, and the answer was angry and, Phil thought, almost brutal. “It served him jolly well right. What right have you sailors to block the roadway?” A toot of the horn and the crowd melted away from in front of the machine. There are few who can stand calmly before an automobile if its engine is whirring and the loud screech of its syren bids you to step aside. But the lad was angry straight through, not only at the man’s recklessness, but at his unfeeling answer to the sailor, and further, there was something familiar in the man’s voice. Phil therefore stood his ground. “Please, I’d like your number,” he cried out, raising his hand impetuously to stay the machine. The car gave a quick leap, and Phil all but fell to the ground. Then it stopped, and as Phil recovered himself the picture he beheld was a very stirring one. The motor had come to a halt, but not voluntarily; a sailorman was standing on the step, the clutch lever held securely back, while the man in the car had taken off his goggles and was staring angrily at the bold American. “How dare you lay hands on me!” he cried. Jack O’Neil, boatswain’s mate in the United States navy, might not have heard the angry exclamation, for all the answer he gave. He was awaiting orders from his superior officer. “I’ve got him, sir,” he said quietly. “We have his number, sir,” another sailor volunteered. Phil waved his hand to O’Neil; the latter let go the clutch lever, and slid back into the gaping crowd, not however without a parting sally. “Say, mister, remember next time when you’re in a hurry not to run over an American; he is liable to puncture your tire.” The noise of the gears drowned his words, but from his gleeful chuckle O’Neil seemed to have enjoyed his own bit of pleasantry, and after all that was all that was necessary, for a foreigner could not be expected to understand American wit. The little Japanese police had been hard by, and doubtless enjoyed the businesslike way in which O’Neil handled a delicate situation, but they were carrying out their orders received from no less an authority than the chief of police--to hold themselves aloof from the visiting man-of-war’s men, and under no circumstances to make arrests unless for the sailors’ own safety.