Attheendofone’sthirdpipethedragonsusedtomoveaboutandfightI’vewatched’em，manyandmanyanightthroughIusedtoregulatemySmokethatway，andnowittakesadozenpipestomake’emstirBesides，theyarealltornanddirty，likethemats，andoldFung-TchingisdeadHediedacoupleofyearsago，andgavemethepipeIalwaysusenow——asilverone，withqueerbeastscrawlingupanddownthereceiver-bottlebelowthecupBeforethat，I
think，Iusedabigbamboostemwithacoppercup，averysmallone，andagreenjademouthpieceItwasalittlethickerthanawalking-stickstem，andsmokedsweet，verysweetThebambooseemedtosuckupthesmokeSilverdoesn’t，andI’vegottocleanitoutnowandthen，that’sagreatdealoftrouble，butIsmokeitfortheoldman’ssakeHemusthavemadeagoodthingoutofme，buthealwaysgavemecleanmatsandpillows，andthebeststuffyoucouldgetanywhere。
Whenhedied，hisnephewTsin-lingtookuptheGate，andhecalleditthe“TempleoftheThreePossessions；“butweoldonesspeakofitasthe“HundredSorrows。”allthesameThenephewdoesthingsveryshabbily，andIthinktheMemsahibmusthelphimSheliveswithhim；sameassheusedtodowiththeoldmanThetwoletinallsortsoflowpeople，niggersandall，andtheBlackSmokeisn’tasgoodasitusedtobeI’vefoundburntbraninmypipeoverandoveragainTheoldmanwouldhavediedifthathadhappenedinhistimeBesides，theroomisnevercleaned，andallthematsaretornandcutattheedgesThecoffinhasgone——gonetoChinaagain——
withtheoldmanandtwoouncesofsmokeinsideit，incaseheshouldwant’emontheway。
TheJossdoesn’tgetsomanysticksburntunderhisnoseasheusedto；that’sasignofill-luck，assureasDeathHe’sallbrown，too，andnooneeverattendstohimThat’stheMemsahib’swork，I