The door opened a little and a tall figure became visible. He wore a black kimono; it was Nagai.
“I want to see you; I’ve got something to talk to you about.”
Nagai quietly tried to read the other’s expression: “All right,” he nodded and, coming out of the room, led the way into the next one. On the floor was a mimeograph, and printing paper was scattered all around.
The two men sat down facing each other on top of the scattered papers. Neither could make up his mind to speak. For the past six months they had been at daggers drawn. It must have been for seven or eight years that they were close friends, but then something had come between them.
The uncomfortable silence continued. The paper shutters behind them jolted as someone attempted to enter.
“You can’t come in,” Nagai raised his head and shouted. His pale, nervous face made him look older than Toyama. His consideration in not letting a third person in, even when the atmosphere was so strained, touched Toyama, but did not melt his stubbornness.
“What’s this picketing squad?” he asked in a hoarse voice, but the other was dumb.
“You’d planned to beat me up, had you?” His voice was bursting with anger now, but still there was not even a flicker of a response on the other’s pale face.
“Do you mean to say you’d set them on to your old mate?” he asked, edging up towards Nagai.
Then Nagai, with elation in his voice, spoke.
