feet to a standstill. Every evening paper was full of the strike. Arisuke almost wept for sheer joy.
“Come on, let’s have another. A man’s got to do something.”
He grabbed his friends by the shoulders and dragged them off to a back alley in Shinjuku. Pushing apart the curtains across the doorway of the sake shop with his shoulder, he swaggered in. As he got drunk (even a virtuous member of the Young Men’s Association can get drunk), he stood up and waved his arms and dangled his legs. Then, facing the bewildered customers, he recounted how he had served in His Majesty’s Imperial Army, and a workman who was eating mince pies and drinking sake clapped his hands.
“You’re a hero, a real hero. There’s not many young fellows like you about nowadays. We’re proud of you.”
When he flopped down into his seat, he felt a sudden dizzinesss. Tables and plates and bottles, and faces and arms and walls, all jumbled together, came rushing at him and hit him between the eyes. In some corner of his brain he regretted that there was no one to carry him shoulder-high, and then he lost consciousness. The next thing he knew was that one of his mates was tapping him on the shoulder and shouting at him: “Tamanoi.[1] We’re going to Tamanoi. Call a taxi. Do you think we’re going to creep straight home without having a bit of fun on a joyful occasion like this?”
- ↑ Tamanoi and Kameido are the great “licenced” districts of Tokyo.
