This influx was the sure indication of approaching tiffin, and when the Japanese rose to take his leave, Bob awakened to the fact, and with some diffidence begged the pleasure of his visitor’s company. Kobo San, however, explained that he had but just time to keep an appointment with his excellency the minister of war, and while courteously expressing his regrets, extended to Bob an invitation to his own house on the following day. Bob accepted with genuine pleasure, and escorted his visitor to the street. The two shook hands almost with the cordiality of old friends. As Bob turned to re-enter the hotel, he encountered the little waiter gazing after the retreating form with a mixture half of admiration half of awe. "Rokuro Kobo San, he very great man," he said, confidentially. "He kindly send my poor uncle to hon’ble prison." *CHAPTER III* *A Samurai’s Home* A Japanese Interior—An Oriental Menu—Tales of Old Japan—The Quarrel with Russia—Chang-Wo—Raiding the Raiders—Good-bye "Takaki ya ni Noborite mireba—" Bob rubbed his eyes, and became conscious of a crick in the neck. He thought for a moment he must be in a railway-train; the sensation was just the same that he had experienced on a night journey to London, when he had had a compartment to himself, and lay stretched on a seat with his head on the elbow cushion at the end. But no: he had never heard in England such a thin soft voice, singing in utter tunelessness such strange words— "Kemuri tatsu; Tami no kamado wa Nigiwai ni kere". He lifted his head from the low neck-rest, and remembered. The voice came through the wall of his room; but it was not a wall—only a slight paper partition. It was evidently time to get up. He flung off the wadded quilt, and sat up—not in bed, but on the stretch of straw matting that formed almost the only furniture of his room. The neck-rest fell down, making a slight noise; the voice in the next room ceased singing; he heard the swish of soft garments; a few moments later a sliding paper panel in the partition was pushed back and a form appeared—the form of a little Japanese carrying a bath and a pitcher of water. "Morning, sir," said the little fellow with a smile and a bow. "Bath in morning, sir?" "Thank you," said Bob, springing to his feet. "By the way, I don’t think I have heard your name yet?" "My name, sir, Taru. You sleep well, sir?" "Oh yes, though I found the head-rest a little strange. Was it you singing just now, Taru?" "No, sir; no sing at all. The little lady, hon’ble mistress, sir; O Toyo San." "Indeed!"