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ACROSS JAPAN IN A MOTOR CAR

distance across Japan to Tsuruga. Fromthere a line of steamers runs twice a weekto Vladivostok."

We looked at the map. Verily it is buta short distance across the Island Kingdom—a trifle over eighty miles as the crowflies.

Why our unseemly leisure?Come within earshot; join the group

composed of a dozen or more of the town'sforeign residents—bankers, shipbrokers,wholesale merchants—who have droppedin to see the American car and its crew, andof whose liquid, oft-replenished hospitality,the latter were now partaking.

"Do you think we can make Tsuruga'cross country?" was the question put toeach newcomer. Some few answered,"Perhaps"; most replied, "I doubt it."In answer to a much-put "why?" wegathered these casual shreds of informa-tion : "I've heard that there are a numberof precipitous mountain ranges betweenhere and Tsuruga, and I'm uncertain ifanything leads over them but trails.""I 've heard the roads are very narrow;built only for rikisha and other narrow-gauge traffic" "I've heard the bridgesare very frail; the heaviest load that theyare constructed to carry is pulled by ahalf-sized bullock on a two-wheeled cart."Everything hearsay! it would seem thatno one ever travels across Japan except byrailroad.

The stretch of country between Kobeand Tsuruga—only eighty miles as thecrow flies—began to look like an insuper-able barrier.

Then someone (whose name should nothave been forgotten as alas! it has been),bethought himself of Mancini, Charles

575

A PICTURESQUE NARRATIVE OF THE JOURNEY MADE

BY THE NEW YORK TO PARIS RACERS

BY GEORGE MACADAM

O ONE out of earshotwould have guessed thatwe were the crew of amotor car engaged ina New York-to-ParisRace. From our leis-urely manner, this out-

of-earshot person would have surmisedthat we were tourists given over to theeccentricity of patronizing first-class hotelsdressed in third-class clothes.

The four of us—George Schuster, driverof the Thomas Flyer; George Miller, itsmechanician; Capt. Hans Hansen, Siber-ian pilot, and I, staff correspondent of theNew York Times; the four of us on thisafternoon of May 12, 1908, leaned againstthe bar of the Oriental Hotel in Kobe andsipped refreshment from long glasses asthough there were no such thing in theworld as three foreign rivals who hadstolen a march on us while we were prov-ing the impossibility of automobiling inAlaska, and who were now an unknownnumber of miles nearer Paris than we.

Just a few words of explanation:With Alaska a proven impossibility, the

rules of the race provided for an alterna-tive route beginning at Vladivostok, cross-ing Manchuria, Siberia, and so on to Paris.Japan was no part of this route. Butwhen we returned from Alaska with theThomas Flyer, we learned that there wouldbe a long and uncertain wait before thesailing of another vessel direct for Vladi-voitock.

"The best thing to do," we were ad-vised, "is to load on the S.S. Shawmutwhich sails in a few days for the Orient. Ittouches at Yokohama and Kobe, andfrom either of these ports it's only a short

576

Mancini, a Kobe shipbroker who has livedin Japan eleven years, talks Japanese likea native, an amateur sportsman, localchampion bicyclist, and owns two of thesix automobiles Kobe boasts. These sel-dom run more than a few miles beyond thecity limits, but Mancini has performed thefeat of driving from Yokohama to Kobeand from Moji to Kobe.

And then it happened just as it does ina fairy story: Mr. Mancini dropped in tolook the American car over. Within tenminutes he had been induced to let a num-ber of business engagements for the fol-lowing morning go by the board, and guidethe Thomas Flyer as far as Kyoto.

The first faint rays of the rising sunwere just touching the tops of the moun-tains that encircle the shoreward side ofKobe, when we rolled out of bed, packedour duffle bags, and carried them downthrough the deserted halls of the OrientalHotel. We ate a hasty breakfast whichhad been ordered the night before, and bysix o'clock the car was ready to start.

Besides its load of extra tires, bolts,nuts, chains and spare parts, four largeduffle bags, a gun and a rifle, the car

The racecourse passed, and it was asthough a drop scene had been raised—wewere now in real Japan, ourselves supply-ing the only touch of the exotic. A shortrun to Sannomiya and we were in a typicalvillage street—a lane about eight feet wide,tiny paper-box houses closely lining eachside, low overhanging roof eaves, and inthe midst of all a clutter of children, house-wives, shopkeepers, merchandise, andhorse and bullock carts.

A very weak bridge. The party had to get out and walk. The bridge was built forrickshaw traffic, not for two-ton autos.

MAKING THE START

carried six passengers: its crew of fourmen, Mr. Mancini and a friend whom hehad asked the privilege of taking, Mr. Ed-ward H. Moss, of the Kobe Branch of theHong Kong-Shanghai Bank.

When Miller cranked the car and itsengine began to "chug-chug-chug," sleepy-eyed faces haloed in rumpled hair, appearedat nearly every window of the hotel and re-mained there until the car had roundedthe corner into the street that runs outthrough the native quarter. This is amuch-traveled highway leading to golflinks and race course, and in consequenceis of a generous European breadth.

The Outing Magazine

Negotiating a sharp right angled turn on a typical bridge. Only four inches are on each sideof the wheels.

When the automobile suddenly appearedat the entrance of this lane, stopping it upalmost as tight as a cork stops a bottle,there was a great scurrying. Those whowere in the street ran indoors, the womenstopping just long enough to seize theirchildren, the shopkeepers to gather uptheir merchandise; those who were indoorsrushed to the house front to see whatmanner of strange thing was causing sucha commotion; cartmen frantically backedtheir horse and bullock carts into sidealleys; and then as the machine slowlypassed, women, children, shopkeepers,cartmen, all flocked from their havens ofsafety and trailed along behind, theirwooden sandals making a clatter thatcould be heard above the unmuffled chug-chugging of the motor.

Here now was our first surprise: thewhole village life of Sannomiya had beenturned topsy-turvy for ten minutes, andit would doubtless be a good many tenminutes more before it was righted again;yet not a grumble was heard nor a frownseen. Sannomiya only smiled and cheer-fully returned the hand-waved salutationsof the foreign disturbers.

Beyond Sannomiya the road narrowsdown to what seems to be the standardroad width in Japan. This is more thanample for the wheeled traffic of the natives,for like everything else in Japan the vehi-cles are built on a miniature scale—rikishasand carts, the latter drawn by man, horseor bullock. The roads are hard and wellkept. From the natives' view-point, theyare almost perfection. But for our auto-mobile? that alas! was another story.There was just room for us to cautiouslyfeel our way along, every now and thencoming dangerously near the deep drain-age ditches on each side. When we met—as we did all too often—rikisha or cart, itsimply meant that rikisha or cart had toyield the right-of-way, dropping a wheelinto one of the ditches and waiting untilthe usurping strangers passed by.

Such a disruption of traffic as thiscaused! Frequently the carts were soheavily laden that the Japs could neitherget them off the road nor back upon itagain. Often the frightened horses andbullocks were more than their panicky

577

THE NARROW ROADS

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The " Inn of the Good Well" where the automobilists spentthe first night on the road.

drivers could manage. Whenever any ofthese things happened, one of us wouldjump off the car, help drag the cart off theroad and lift it back again, or use ourmost soothing language, sometimes ourbest muscle, in restraining shying bul-lock or rearing horse.

All these things ate up valuable time.By 7:30 we reached Nishinomia, abouttwelve miles from Kobe—a poor look-ing road record to any one unacquainted

with the handicaps of automobile travelin Japan.

Now this passage through a Japanesevillage, perched on the seat of an automo-bile, is a novel experience to a man ac-customed to the uncommunicative façadepresented by a row of houses in America.As you know, the first story of housefronts in Japan are chiefly screens made ofoiled paper. In the day time these areslid back so that everything stands open

580A scene showing the natives watching the racing party getting their start.

581

to view—exactly like the front of a doll'shouse. To the traveler through one ofthese streets, the entire life and industryof the village passes in panoramic reviewon either side. Within each shop, on ayellow mat of rice straw, sits the shop-keeper. If there are customers, he is likelybrewing a pot of tea for them before pro-ceeding to business. Look quick! througha passage floored with dark wood thatglistens like glare ice and reflects the straw-colored paper of the walls and ceiling, youwill catch a glimpse of a miniature gardenfilled with gayly colored flowers.

THE PITTSBURG OF JAPAN

An hour later, a turn in the road broughtthe chimneys of Osaka into view. Thiscity might be called the Pittsburg of Japan.The old hand labor of Japan has here beensuperseded by the machine labor of theWestern World. High brick chimneysbelching thick clouds of smoke dominatethe horizon. Osaka is one of the scenicblots, now rapidly growing in number, onthe face of old Japan.

But instead of continuing along thecoast, the road to Kyoto now made a turn

The main street of this village was asnarrow as that of Sannomiya, and in theheart of the village the street made aright-angled turn. A very easy matterfur a two-wheeled cart to swing around thiscorner; but for our machine, with its108-inch wheel-base to make the turn, wasas close-fitting an operation as that ofputting on a pair of tight gloves. Schustersent the car ahead as far as possible; thenhacked and cramped; again ahead andanother cramp; this double operationWag repeated until the car was finallystraightened out on its new course.

inland and our backs were unregretfullyturned upon Osaka and her chimneys. Itwas an upland country through which wewere now traveling. The highway wasjust a narrow gray line across a countrywhich looked as though it had been laidout by a landscape gardener with a won-derful eye for color effect, instead of beinga country laid out by farmers fur the verypractical purpose of raising yen and sen—the Japanese species of "The Needful."

Land is so scarce and the people sonumerous that a farm rarely consists ofmore than an acre or two. These little

The natives of interior Japan cordially lent a helping hand when theautomobile was in trouble.

Across Japan in a Motor Car

Among the rice fields in the mountain valleys. Note the child following to pick up small coins.

At Yanagasa where the travelers had to make an eighty mile detour to gain ten miles.

582

583

farms are divided up into tiny fields.During the season of the year in whichwe made our journey, one of these fields isfilled with sprouting barley, light greenin color; another field—perhaps the next—with vetch, a lavender-colored, clover-like fodder; a neighboring field, with adark green grass from the seed of which alamp-oil is manufactured; another withthe pale-yellow flowers of the mustard;and scattered here and there, fields filledwith what looked like a variety of lily—some white, some red, some yellow, but allequally brilliant.

Then to get the complete picture youmust imagine patches of flowering azaliasdotting the roadside; towering, round-topped camellia trees breaking the sky-line with frequent splashes of bright green;usually in the shade of these trees, houseswith white plastered walls and red-tiledroofs; about the more pretentious of thesehouses, white plastered walls above whichappeared a profusion of palms, roses andstrange native flowers; and in the door-ways of the garden walls, kimono-clad Jap-anese girls—the kimonos as many and asgayly colored as the garden that framedthem.

I have traveled in but one other countrythat is so gayly colored; and that was somefew years ago when in the company of anumber of other youngsters, and an evil-smelling magic lantern, I used to makefrequent visits to the Land of PrimaryColors.

By ten minutes after nine we had madeKanzaki, a distance of twenty miles.Then the road dipped down into a valley,and ran through a bamboo grove, the firstof many succeeding ones. The bambootrees on each side leaned out over the roadand laced together overhead, the roadmerely a tunnel through a dense mass ofvivid foliage through which the sunlightfiltered in softened, green-tinted rays. Itwas a spot that tempts one to pause rem-iniscently and riot in descriptive adjectives.These, however, will be omitted; and thestory will jump over a mile of road to anameless bridge that spans a small andnameless creek.

mobile was stopped, and we investigated.A single man, jumping upon the bridge,proved it as springy as the most-sung mat-tress in the advertising pages of America'smagazines. To have run even the frontwheels of the machine upon it, would havemeant dropping them through into thestream below. One little bridge that couldnot be crossed: result—a twenty miledetour through back country roads. Andlet no one forget that a twenty-mile detourin an automobile is one thing in the UnitedStates, another thing in Japan.

While we had been inspecting the bridge,traffic had piled up before and behind theautomobile which completely filled theroad. All the carts that were behind us hadto back up while our car was backed to across road; there the oncoming traffic wasallowed to pass by, and then we once moregot under way.

Bridges followed each other now with amore than desirable rapidity. The nativecarts can be turned so easily on their twowheels that the bridges, for the sake ofeconomy in construction, always crossstreams by the shortest line, no matterwhat the resulting road-angle may be.How this facilitated automobile travel,when both roads and bridges are just wideenough to let the machine pass over them,can easily be imagined.

About a half mile beyond the town ofIkeda, we encountered a new obstacle—and this one seemed almost hopeless. Thehighway was being raised to a new level,the old road being buried under a fifteen-foot embankment of roughly piled dirt onthe ridge of which ran a narrow-gaugerailway track for dirt cars. A wooden bar-rier at each end closed the stretch of roadto all traffic.

We held a little council. To avoid thismeant another long detour, and no onecould tell what obstacles might be encoun-tered there.

So Mr. Mancini spoke to the foreman ofthe coolies. It was a treat to tee howcheerfully he removed the barriers at eachend of the road, how he set his one hun-dred or more coolies to work smoothingthe worst places, and how cheerfully thosecoolies labored at the extra task. Theyworked as though every one of them had awager on the American car reaching Parisfirst.

THB AUTOMOBILE AND THE BRIDGE

Now, this was practically the first of theJapanese bridges we had seen. The auto-

Across Japan in a Motor Car

584

Then followed three hundred yards ofticklish steering, bad bumping, and dan-gerous sliding on the narrow ridge of dirt.One yen (fifty American cents) was handedto the foreman, who bowed his thanks ashe stood among his smiling but unre-warded coolies; and once more "all aboardfor Paris"—the established slogan for allsuch occasions.

One o'clock and we reached the outskirtsof Kyoto. Our approach to the heart ofthis large city was through a long, narrowstreet lined with native stores. Many ofthe merchants had their wares spread onthe pavement in front of their shops. Asthe clouds which had been gathering all

against the shop fronts, and then, havingmade room for the automobile, repeatedthe operations at the next shop. To tryto help the shopkeepers straighten outtheir tumbled wares would have been use-less: so, not without a twinge of con-science, we continued our disturbingcourse. And in the entire length of thatstreet, not an angry word, not even afrown.

By the time we reached the main part ofthe city, the rain was falling heavily; butfortunately the streets were now broadenough for good speed. A quick run tothe Kyoto Hotel; a swing into its walledgarden-like courtyard; and once more we

A scene showing the coolies helping the machine over a newly filled-in road. One yen given tothe foreman satisfied all the workmen.

It was into this narrow thoroughfare,already crowded to its utmost capacity bymerchants and shoppers, merchandise andawnings, that the mammoth-like Thomaspushed its way. It was our only route intothe city and so we had no choice as to whatfollowed. Captain Hansen jumped out onone side, and I on the other. We sweptaside the merchandise to save it from de-struction; pushed back the awnings

were in the midst of a Caucasian crowd,for many are the Americans and Europeansthat make their tourist pilgrimage-viarailroad—to Kyoto.

At the Kyoto Hotel there is, or at leastthere was at the time of our visit, a youngJapanese interpreter, S. R. T. Ito. And itwas into his care that Mr. Mancini deliveredus.

THE GOOD-TEMPERED JAPANESE

morning were now beginning to drip, manyhad sheltered their wares by spreadingawnings held on bamboo supports.

A JAPANESE PECULIARITY

Now, ever since we had taken the roadat Kobe, we noticed that through somepeculiarity of the Japanese ear-drum manyof the pedestrians and cartmen failed to

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585

This is one of the typical sharp turns in Japanese villages.

distant background of mist-covered mountains.

In an automobile race, how-ever, there are no pauses forfine views or other waysideseductions. So, making thebest of the road which wasnow almost entirely cleared oftraffic by the rain, we hummedalong; through little hamlets,down to Lake Biwa, over along stretch of lakeside road,until we were brought to asudden stop at the village ofIshiba. The road here crossesthe railroad track. In the dis-tance was an approachingtrain. We could have crossed,backed, crossed again, and stillhad a big margin on the sideof safety. But apparently allvehicles looked alike to thegateman,be they motor cars orbullock carts, for he dropped

the gates just ahead of us. Mr. Ito ex-plained to him in Japanese; Schuster talkedto him in plain English; but the gates re-mained closed.

In its own good time, the train arrived.As it passed by, the side toward the Ameri-can automobile was suddenly convertedinto a panorama of Japanese portraits-

notice the"chugg-chugging" of the unmuf-fled motor. Even a peremptory "honk-honk" failed to attract attention. It wasnot until Mr. Mancini, or his successor, Mr.Ito, sang out "hai-hai"—the cry used byrikisha men to demand the right of wayfrom the slower moving horse and bullockcarts— that the obstructing pedestrians orcartmen would look up, and then, surpriseand wonder written over theircountenances, hastily get to oneside.

We could not ask a betterroad than the one we now had—hard, smooth and fully thirtyfeet wide. Five miles out itled into a narrow, winding valleybetween tree-covered moun-tains. Through the small villageof Otsu it led, over the crest ofa hill, and then we saw one ofthe most magnificent views thatwe had in Japan. At the endof the mountain valley was LakeBiwa, a sheet of water twentymiles long and four miles wide.Heavy dripping clouds hungover us, but the sun was shin-ing brightly on the lake. Span-ning the lake's further end,curved a beautiful double rain-bow which glistened against a A typical mountain bridge, not built for automobile traffic.

Across Japan in a Motor Car

Japanese school children just out wondering at the automobile.

At a crossroad just beyond the villageof Yasu our progress was again stopped,this time by a big crowd of natives in galaattire. When the machine came to a stopwe saw coming down the crossroad a priestdressed in weirdly gaudy regalia, andmarching behind him about twenty youthsdressed in white knee-length tunics andbearing on their shoulders a large woodenshrine as weirdly gaudy in its coloring andornamentation as the regalia of the priest.Mr. Ito quickly explained that it was theannual village festival of the Shintoists.They were now bearing the shrine to thetemple—a neighboring hilltop covered withancient trees.

It was an awkward moment; to goahead would break up the crowd waiting tofall in behind the shrine-bearers, and tostand still would block the progress of thelatter. It was the priest who cut the knot.He continued his slow, dignified approach.Then, reaching the side of the automobile,

he extended his hand with a kindly smileto each of the strangers in turn. This cere-mony over, he stepped back and surveyedthe machine with frank curiosity. En-couraged by this, Captain Hansen told Mr.Ito to ask the priest if he wouldn't get intothe car and be photographed. It was anill-advised, even a risky thing to do. Butthe priest smiled a quiet smile whichseemed to say, "These strangers are surelya strange people." But he climbed intothe car, taking the seat next to Schuster.

The photograph taken, the priest wavedthe crowd to right and to left, opening upa lane for the automobile; and then hegravely nodded a "good-bye."

THE AUTOMOBILISTS BECOME "FOREIGN

DEVILS"

As we turned the next corner—the roadnow leading directly into the village ofHachiman—we found ourselves facing anadvancing crowd which for a distance ofthree or four hundred feet filled the streetfrom house front to house front.

An elderly man ran forward and saidsomething to Ito.

"He asks you to go very slow."

THE RACERS MEET A RELIGIOUS

PROCESSION

every window framed a face, some twofaces, and some entire family groups.

586

587

When the Thomas, just maintainingheadway, reached the edge of the crowd,we discovered that in a dozen or moreplaces it was gathered in heaving knots ofmen and women, and in the center of eachknot was a struggling man, his face dis-torted with rage. For a moment we couldnot understand it; but when we saw fistsfrantically shaken at us, we realized thathere at last we were playing the undesira-ble rôle of "foreign devils."

When we were in the midst of the crowd,one of the belligerents struggled to withinstriking distance of the automobile. Butbefore any of the crew came within reachof his fist, he was hauled and pushed backout of the danger zone, the women takingas active a part as the men in this strugglefor international peace.

The far edge of the crowd was no soonerreached than Schuster switched over ontosecond speed. As the road between thefleeting automobile and the crowd length-ened, the struggling men were released andcame hot-footing after us. But the bestthey could do was to catch up to the tail-end of our dust cloud.

Then Ito explained: "It's areligious procession that is onits way to join the other pro-cession at Yasu. Together theyare going to the temple. Themen who tried to attack youhave had too much 'sake' todrink. That's why they gotthe idea that your automobileshould not travel on the sameroad as their religious proces-sion."

How it happened none of usknew, but about an hour afterleaving Hachiman we dis-covered that somewhere we hadslipped off the main highwaythat leads along Lake Biwaand strayed into the bywaysof the shoreside mountainland.To go back seemed impossible:no one could tell us the way.

"I don't know where thisroad will take us," remarkedMr. Ito comfortingly,"but we'dbetter keep on going until we

reach some big village where they can putus on the right road again."

Maibara was the place we were lookingfor. At Kyoto they had told us thatMaibara would be a good place to stop forthe night. "Only forty miles from here,"so said our informants. By a conservativeestimate we had already traveled that dis-tance.

The wandering mountain road finallyled us down into a broad valley of ricefields. They were all covered with water,here and there the young rice just begin-ning to show, a vivid light green, above thesurface. Between these irrigated fields,the road—now only a narrow dike—zig-zagged with the utmost regard for the ad-jacent fields. There were no wastefulcurves; every turn in the road was anabrupt, right-angled corner.

A heavy cloud on the horizon shiftedand revealed the sun just dipping behindthe mountain tops. Already the frogs hadbegun their familiar night-song.

"This will make fine going in the dark,"remarked Miller cheerfully, as Schustercramped, backed and filled around one of

Removing obstacles from a narrow road. Afrequent occurrence.

LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS

Across Japan in a Motor Car

588

the turns in the road. "I wonder howdeep the mud is in those rice fields."

But luckily, before the twilight hadfaded out, a sharp turn brought us onto ahighway of comfortable width.

Never in the previous history of thatroad had such speed been made over it.Schuster opened up the throttle until wewere reeling off twenty-five to thirty milesan hour. The horn sang a continuous"honk-honk-honk," and, moreover, Miller,Hansen and I added our voices to that ofMr. Ito, and together we bellowed out achorus of "hai-hai-hai" that swept theroad clear of all traffic.

We sped through village after village.Each house was now only a quaintlyshaped silhouette, the lower half of whichwas illuminated by several large squaresof silver-gray light, the sliding windowscreens of oiled paper having been closedfor the night. In many of the open door-ways were huddled groups of natives, won-derment, sometimes fear, written on theirfaces.

An hour and a half of this, and then—long-sought Maibara. We had no soonerbrought up in front of lzutsuya Inn (Innof the Good Well) than the street wasthronged with natives. It was as thoughthe circus had come to town—as doubtlessfor the Japs it had. That we were ahighly enjoyable show, the laughter andchatter of the crowd left us no room fordoubt. Even the babies had been broughtout and were now being held shoulder-highso that they would miss no part of theperformance.

clad Eves were stealing glances out of thecorner of their eyes at the strange guests,and taking advantage of their low curtesiesto giggle in that winsome, childish, flirta-tious manner peculiar to the tea-girls ofthis happy Island Kingdom.

"Can we get shelter for the night inlzutsuya Inn?" asked Mr. Ito.

"The Honorable Strangers are most wel-come," said the landlady.

More curtesies."Where can the honorable gentlemen

put their big rikisha?" continued Mr. Ito.No one could suggest a place big enough

to house the automobile, until the masterof the railway station offered the shelter ofa freight shed. A half dozen people gotlanterns—the same kind that we hang inthe trees on the Fourth of July, only thereal Japanese ones are made of oiled paper.The three little tea-girls slipped on theirwooden sandals. And then with the lan-tern-bearers in the lead, we all—men,women, children, babes and tea-girls—trooped along with the automobile asSchuster guided it over into its impromptugarage.

We were too hungry to experiment withnative food; so we went to the railwayrestaurant and had a meal a la Caucasian.Be it said here, the Jap imitates our navalarchitecture better than he does ourculinary art.

THE TRAVELERS FIND AN INN

A paper-screen door was slid back andwe followed Mr. Ito into the vestibule ofthe inn. Every Japanese building, be itstore, inn or dwelling, has this vestibule.It is on a level with the street, the floor ofthe house itself being about a foot higher.Street foot-gear is always shed before step-ping upon this floor—a most wise precau-tion in a land where the people sit, eatand sleep on the floor.

Upon the edge of this platform-like floorstood the landlady making most graciouscurtesies. Behind her stood three littletea-girls, also making gracious curtesies.But that was not all: these three kimono-

THE CURIOSITY OF THE NATIVES

When we returned to the inn the greaterpart of the crowd was still standing infront of it—waiting. They were not un-rewarded. We sat down on the edge ofthe floor and began to remove our lacedboots. When these are wet and muddythey have a way of sticking obstinatelyon the heel. So we were obliged to call onone another to take turn playing boot-jack. These little tugs-of-war, resultingin mudied hands and exposure of holeysocks, made the crowd shake with laughter.

The boots off, a new trial awaited us:the floor was smooth and slippery as glare-ice. Left to ourselves, we doubtlesslycould have navigated it with some sem-blance of dignity. But with three prettytea-girls demurely leading the way, and anappreciative populace behind us—that,alas! was another story. I'm afraid we

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589

Clearing road of obstructing native traffic. The nativeswere always willing to make way.

MAKING A LONG DETOUR

If this is the wide road, we thanked ourstars that we had not tried the short-cut.Before a mile was made, we had slipped offthe road into a ditch. We unlimbered the

block and tackle and hauled the off-sidewheels back on the road. A short distancefurther and the operation had to be re-

cut some strange antics before we were lostto public view.

The sliding screens had been drawnaround our rooms, and quilts and sheetsspread for us upon the floor. Hansen,Miller and Schuster were soon tucked awayand sound asleep. I decided that I wantedto smoke another pipe so I returned to themain room. Mr. Ito was seated on thefloor with a number of the villagers, care-fully making out a map for our use on themorrow.

The next morning I was awakened byone side of my room being slid back. Iopened my eyes and met the smiling gazeof one of thetea-girls.

"O hayo,"said she.

"The verytop of themorning toyou," said I.

The openside of myroom gaveupon a ver-anda. Thescreens thatenclosed thisveranda werein turn shovedback by thetea-maiden,and then oneentire side ofmy bedroomlay open tothe garden,one of thosetypical minia-ture gardenswith a two-by-four pond, rock-work, dwarftrees and flowers a-plenty.

I can imagine no more delightful way tobe awakened. I sniffed the fresh, flower-scented morning air; I feasted my eyes onall the beauties of nature within range ofvision; I felt that I could lie there count-less——

"We're going to be under way in a halfhour." 'Twas Schuster's voice soundingthrough the inn.

Dressing, breakfast and leave-takingwere crowded into that all-too-brief halfhour. Miabara assembled to see the start.

The three tea-maidens leaned over the railof an upper veranda and called "Sayo-nara"; "Good-bye" we answered; thecrowd shouted "banzai", and we were off.

Before noon we had reached Yanagase.Here Mr. Ito called a halt.

"It 's only ten miles from here toTsuruga. But the road leads over a veryhigh mountain, and I'm told it's veryrough and narrow."

"Is there another road?" we asked withsome apprehension.

"Oh, yes, there's another road. It leadsover the mountains, too. But it's an oldroad and has many more travelers."

"Why nottake it then?"

"It's sev-enty or eightymiles further.'

So Mr. Itomade inquir-ies of the villa-gers. Itseemed to bea question ofgreat doubt,for the menof Yanagasetalked it overlong and ear-nestly. Theyexamined thecar, measuredthe width be-tween thewheels, askedhow much thecar weighed.After aboutan hour's talkthe postman

arrived. He had no doubts. On his ad-vice, we turned our backs upon the ten-mile road, and started off on the eighty-mile detour.

Across Japan in a Motor Car

590

peated. But why recount the story of thislong afternoon of hard, tedious labor. Itwas like the unlucky Finnegan's railroad-ing: "Off again, on again—off again, onagain."

The road was now so narrow that theside-boards on the car prevented Schusterseeing its edges. So, with the motor cutdown to its lowest speed, Miller walkedbeside one front wheel and I beside theother, and with an upraised hand each ofus guided Schuster to right, to left, orstraight ahead. Hansen walked behind,singing out a warning whenever the driv-ing wheels started to cut through the softedges of theroad.

We traveledso slowly thatthe nativestrooped alongwith us, eachvillage addingnew recruitsuntil ourlaughing chat-tering escortmust havenumbered twoor three hun-dred.

But oncemore theshadows werelengthening,and once morewe were farfrom where weexpected tobe. It beganto look likea bivouac under the stars, for the roadwas now climbing up into a wooded rangeof mountains and the villages were becom-ing fewer and smaller. Our native escort,too, had grown smaller. Only about fortywere still with us.

It was not long before we had occasionto give thanks for their enduring curiosity.The road pitched upward at a veritablemountain angle. The automobile nego-tiated this until it came to a sharp turnaround a knob of rock. Now it is impossi-ble to back and cramp when your auto-mobile is clinging to a mountain road.There was but one thing to do—lift the rear

A stop for roadside information.

wheels around. So we called on our nativeescort for help. With a long-drawn"oi—ta—saa," the Japanese equivalentof "all—to-gether," they quickly straight-ened the car out for its next climb.

Looking up the road, we could see thatthese sharp turns now followed each otherrapidly. So we switched off the motorand tied our long rope to the front springs.Thirty of the Japs, including three girls,caught hold of this, and slowly towed thecar up the steep grade, eight or ten of theJaps following behind to lift the drivingwheels around the turns.

Two hours of this slow, straining work,and at last,the mountaintop. Nighthad long sincefallen; but abrilliant full-moon showedus that theroad aheaddropped ab-ruptly—aboutnine hundredfeet in a halfmile—into am o u n t a i n -walled valley.It turned anddoubled on it-self in themost amazinghairpin cur-ves; and be-side many ofthese, was asheer drop in-to the valley

below. "We can't attempt that to-night,"said Schuster. Then turning to Mr. Ito:"Tell these people to be back here at sun-rise."

There was a lone house on the mountaintop, and under its thatched roof we foundshelter for the night. Two peasants wereleft to guard the automobile.

"One would not stay alone," said Mr.Ito. "The forests are full of bears andmonkeys; and the monkeys—oh, they'revery bad."

With our boots off, we joined the familygroup that was sitting on the floor of theliving room, gathered round the fire of

The Outing Magazine

Evening at Harvest 591

faggots which burned in the middle of theroom, the smoke finding its way outthrough a hole in the roof-thatch. Aboiling cauldron was singing its cheerfulsong.

We had supper of rice which we ate withchop-sticks, of boiled eggs which we ate asbest we could out of the shells, and of teawhich was delicious. And then, leavingMr. Ito telling the strange story of ourtravels to the fireside group, we were ledoff to our beds which had been spread uponthe floor of a rear room.

Promptly at sunrise our peasant friendsarrived, the three girls still in the party.The rope was now tied to the rear axle, andthe car started over the crest of the moun-tain, some of the Japs straining to hold itback while others lifted first the front andthen the rear wheels around the sharpturns.

For two miles they accompanied usthrough the valley; and then—a goodroad stretching out before us—we badethem good-bye. Fifty yen (twenty-fivedollars) was the sum they divided amongthemselves. The cheerful chorus of "sayo-nara" and "banzai" that followed us be-spoke their delight with this payment.

At noon the road led us through a cornerof the big town of Takefu. Here there wasa stop of thirty minutes to replenish our

gasoline supply. From among the crowdwhich quickly gathered, there came an oldgentleman of dignified bearing. Perhapshe was the Mayor of Takefu—but anyhow,he was a Local Personage. He spoke toMr. Ito.

"He says," quoted Mr. Ito, "that this isthe first, very likely the last chance of thepeople of Takefu to see one of these strangemachines. He asks if the Honorable Gen-tleman will be so courteous as to travelthrough the main street of the town sothat all may see."

"Sure," said Schuster.And so a round trip was made through

Takefu's main street which was hung withbanners, streamers and lanterns innumera-ble and swarmed with men, women, chil-dren and babies. For it was a gala day,the big temple in the heart of the townholding its annual festival.

Out of Takefu, the road led once more upinto the mountains. But the highway wasnow broad and hard; and we leaned backin our seats, smoked cigars, and watched afifteen-mile panorama of glorious mountainscenery unroll itself.

Then we passed through a long tunnel,and, from the road curving on the brinkof a high precipice, we got our first viewof the Japan Sea. In a sheltered bend ofthe surf-marked shore of Wakasha Bay,lay Tsuruga, and at her moorings two hun-dred yards off shore the S. S. Mongolia,which was to carry us across sea to Vladi-vostock.

A NOVEL METHOD OF DESCENT