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The wharf at Yokohama.

The scene is the departure of a big European liner. Akai, dressed up as usual and accompanied by his suite, comes to the railing of the first-class deck and, wreathed in smiles, grabs the coloured streamers that are thrown up from the wharf. His left arm embraces two bouquets of flowers.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

A steward beating a gong runs past Akai and, glancing at his fat behind, gives a snigger.

As the gong sounds the people seeing off friends begin to leave the ship.

On the wharf are dotted small groups of workers belonging to the Japan Federation of Labour, with their leaders. They are all waving little Rising Sun flags, bidding farewell to their President. Near by swarm dozens of policemen.

At the far end a couple of sailors are leaning against the railing of the second-class deck, talking.

“Hell, can you beat that? Take a look at all these guys wavin’ their little flags and sayin’ bye-bye to their President. It’s enough to give you the belly-ache when you think they’re all workers like us.”

“I’ll say it is. They’re a lot of saps, aren’t they? If they just knew how their precious representative and his party live when they’re on this ship they’d soon get fed up with him.”

“It just shows you how backward the labour movement is in Japan.”