Behind the Barrington’s sampan, a large lighter came alongside the wharf.  It was black with coal-dust, and in one corner was heaped a pile of shallow baskets, such as are used in coaling vessels at Japanese ports, being slipped from hand to hand in unbroken chain up the ship’s side and down again to the coal barge.  The work was finished.  The lighter was empty except for a crowd of coal-stained coolies which it was bringing back to Nagasaki.  These were dressed like the rickshaw-men.  They wore tight trousers, short jackets and straw sandals.  They were sitting, wearied, on the sides of the barge, wiping black faces with black towels.  Their hair was long, lank and matted.  Their hands were bruised and shapeless with the rough toil.

“Poor men,” sighed Asako, “they’ve had hard work!”

The crowd of them passed, peering at the English people and chattering in high voices.  Geoffrey had never seen such queer-looking fellows, with their long hair, clean-shaven faces, and stumpy bow-legs.  One more disheveled than the others was standing near him with tunic half-open.  It exposed a woman’s breast, black, loose and hard like leather.

“They are women!” he exclaimed, “what an extraordinary thing!”

But the children of Nagasaki—­surely there could be no such disillusionment.  They are laughing, happy, many-coloured and ubiquitous.  They roll under the rickshaw wheels.  They peep from behind the goods piled on the floors of the shops, a perpetual menace to shopkeepers, especially in the china stores, where their bird-like presence is more dangerous than that of the dreaded bull.  They are blown up and down the temple-steps like fallen petals.  They gather like humming-birds round the itinerant venders of the streets, the old men who balance on their bare shoulders their whole stock in trade of sweetmeats, syrups, toys or singing grasshoppers.  They are the dolls of our own childhood, endowed with disconcerting life.  Around their little bodies flames the love of colour of an oriental people, whose adult taste has been disciplined to sombre browns and greys.  Wonderful motley kimonos they make for their children with flower patterns, butterfly patterns, toy and fairy-story patterns, printed on flannelette—­or on silk for the little plutocrats—­in all colors, among which reds, oranges, yellows, mauves, blues and greens predominate.

They invaded the depressing atmosphere of the European-style hotel, where Geoffrey and Asako were trying to enjoy a tasteless lunch—­their grubby, bare feet pattering on the worn lino.

It pleased him to watch them, playing their game of Jonkenpan with much show of pudgy fingers, and with restrained and fitful scamperings.  He even made a tentative bid for popularity by throwing copper coins.  There was no scramble for this largesse.  Gravely and in turn each child pocketed his penny; but they all regarded Geoffrey with a wary and suspicious eye.  He, too, on closer inspection found them less angelic than at first sight.  The slimy horror of unwiped noses distressed him, and the significant prevalence of scabby scalps.