Now Dicky was the son of a missionary, and he had been brought up on good books and Sunday schools, and the night before he had been taken to hear the wonderful experiences of a “brother” from China, who had filled his little head full of “glorious martyrdom,” “sinful heathen,” “the overthrowing of idols,” and “the abomination of desolation,” which Dicky didn’t understand but thought meant the long stretch of muddy rice-fields down beyond Negishi. And that put Jizō into his head. And besides, there was the new hatchet. All the morning he had played Red Indians, until, in an access of realism, he had almost brained the baby. The threatened loss of his hatchet and the great idea that was working in his head made him quiet and subdued all through dinner. He was sorry about baby, “poor little martyr,” as his mother called her; and the idea grew and grew. Why shouldn’t he be a martyr too, and return to his family covered with glory? Then the thought of Jizō jumped into his head. He would go out, like the “brother” from China, into the “abomination of desolation,” and “overturn the idol” of the “sinful heathen.” Or, at least, if he couldn’t overturn it, the new hatchet would cut off its head, and Dicky’s fingers itched to try. He had no idea martyrdom was so interesting. So, dinner over, Dicky seized his hatchet, and started off, away from the settlement, across the canal, up by the racecourse, and down the hill towards Negishi. Here he took to the shore, to avoid complications in the village; for Dicky was used to showing his Christian superiority by cuffing the heads of the heathen, and the boys of Negishi were his particular enemies. So the tide being out he kept to the shore until he was past the village, and the long stretch of rice-fields, nothing but solid ponds of black mud, each surrounded by a little, low, mud bank, came into sight. “The abomination of desolation,” said Dicky. And it did look like it. He went on along the narrow path towards the hills, with the wide stretch of muddy ponds on each side of him. They dwindled away gradually as Dicky went up the valley, dwindled away until they only looked like a kind of mud river running between the green hills. And there beyond the last one, on the edge of the hill, was Jizō. Jizō, with his broad smile and his funny little bib. Dicky looked about him nervously; the great moment had come. No, there was no one in the rice-fields, and no one coming after him from the village; and Jizō’s smile was tempting. Up went the little hatchet and smash down with all Dicky’s strength. But Jizō’s head did not roll in the dust, as it ought to have done, so Dicky tried again. He was getting excited now. It was so beautiful to feel his dear hatchet coming down smash, smash, smash, and to know he was doing the “good work” at the same time.