Chapter 11

⁠​​​‌​​​​‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​⁠With the pristine dawn, Robert MacLaurin arose from his bed like a large, yellow mountain; for his pajamas—every square yard of them—were of fine Canton silk, the color of the bulbous moon when it reposes low on China's horizon.

Satisfying himself at length that the bedroom had another occupant, he drained the contents of a fat, white water-jug, then tossed the jug upon the incumbent of the bedroom