"I find it pleasanter sitting together. By the way, may I ask the
identity of the Nipponese person, with your father?"

"How do you know he is my father?" she parried.

"I do not know. I merely thought he looked quite worthy of the honor."

"While away with the rough, bad soldiers, you did not forget how to
make graceful speeches," she complimented him. "The object of your
pardonable curiosity is a Mr. Okada, the potato baron of California.
He was formerly prime minister to the potato king of the San Joaquin,
but revolted and became a pretender to the throne. While the king
lives, however, Okada is merely a baron, although in a few years he
will probably control the potato market absolutely."

He thumped the table lightly with his maimed hand.

"I knew he was just a coolie dressed up."

She reached for an olive.

"Go as far as you like, native son. He's no friend of mine."

"Well, in that case, I'll spare his life," he countered boldly. "And
I've always wanted to kill a Japanese potato baron. Do you not think
it would be patriotic of me to immolate myself and reduce the cost of
spuds?"

"I never eat them. They're very fattening. Now, if you really wish to
be a humanitarian, why not search out the Japanese garlic king?"