Wherever you arrive in Japan, whether by steamer or by train, you will find
long rows of rickshaw-boys waiting to be hired. They are all called boys,
whatever their age may be. Until a possible passenger comes in sight, the
queer little men, many of them under five feet in height, stand beside
their rickshaws, smoking their tiny little brass pipes with bowls about
half as big as a thimble. Their clothes are very simple. They wear a very
tight pair of short blue drawers and a blue tunic, upon the back of which
a huge white crest is painted, the distinguishing mark of each boy. An
enormous white hat the size and shape of a huge basin is worn on the head;
but if the day becomes very hot the hat is taken off, and a wisp of cloth
bound round the forehead to prevent sweat from running into the eyes. As
for sunstroke, the rickshaw-boy has no fear of that.
When you step into sight, a score dart forward, dragging their rickshaws
after them with one hand and holding the other up to draw your attention,
and shouting, "Riksha! Riksha! Riksha!" You choose one, and step in.
The human steed springs between the shafts, raises them and tilts you
backwards, and then darts off, as if eager to show you his strength and
speed, and prove to you what a good choice you have made.
Away bounds the little man, and soon you are bowling along a narrow street
where a passage seems impossible, so full is it of boys and girls, men
and women, shops and stalls. There may be a side-walk, but then, the
shopkeepers have taken that to spread out their wares, or the stallkeepers
have set up their little booths there.
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