other days; a boy to whom he owed much, perhaps his very life.

"Hanada!" he repeated again, as he turned beneath the furs. How well he
remembered that fight. Even then--it was his first year in a military
preparatory school--he had shown his tendencies to develop as a
featherweight champion. And this tendency had come near to ending his
career. The military school was one of those in which the higher
classmen treated the beginners rough. Johnny had resented this treatment
and had been set upon by four husky lads in the darkness. He had settled
two of them, knocked them cold. But the other two had got him down, and
were beating the life out of him when this little Jap, Hanada, had
appeared on the scene. Being also a first year student, he had come in
with his ju'jut'su and between them they had won the battle, but not
until the Jap had been hung over a picket fence with a jagged wound in
his shoulder. It was the scar of that wound Johnny had seen and it was
that scar which had told him that this must be Hanada.

He smiled now, as he thought how he had taken Hanada to his room after
that boy's battle and had attempted to sew up the cut with an ordinary
needle. He smiled grimly as he thought of the fight and how he had
resolved to win or die. Hanada had helped him win.

And here he had been traveling with the Japanese days on end and had not
recognized him. And yet it was not so strange. He had not seen him for
six years. Had Hanada recognized him? If he had, and Johnny found it
hard to doubt it, then he had his own reasons for keeping silent. Johnny
decided that he would not be the first to break the silence. But after
all there was a strange new comfort in the realization that here was one
among all these strangers whom he could trust implicitly. And Hanada
would make a capital companion with whom he might cross the thirty-five