When the lord of Fusang fell ill, many wealthy Fusang merchants who did business in Chang'an City in the Tang Dynasty came to visit him.

Instead, the lord of Fuso received a lot of gifts and money, much to his surprise.

These wealthy businessmen don't pay much attention to the lord of Fusang on weekdays, and the lord of Fusang didn't expect that he was played by Tang Zhaozong in the Tang Dynasty, and he fell ill with anger, but he got so much money to compensate him.

This made the lord of Fusang, who was struggling to live on weekdays and rely on Fusang Guan Bai and the garrison generals of the Tang Dynasty to subsidize all his expenses.

The lord of Fuso said to his chamberlain: "In this way, I, the so-called lord of the country, have a lizi." ”

The chamberlain of the lord of Fuso said, "What is this little thing that the lord of the country has gotten? It's not as clear as a clear stream in Chang'an City of the Tang Dynasty. ”

The lord of Fuso was shocked and said, "Is there really such a thing? ”

The black and purple crow swooped down and landed on the railing of the balcony, waiting for an opportunity to fly into the house to steal the bread and butter that Khosra had placed beside Flory's bed. Flory climbed out of the mosquito net, called out to Kosra to get him some gin, and went into the bathroom, where he sat for a while in a zinc basin where the water was supposed to be cold. After a few sips of gin, he felt better, so he shaved his face. Usually, he doesn't shave until the evening because his beard is dark and grows quickly.

While Flory sat in the tub with a sad face, Mr. McGregor wore shorts and a sweatshirt, and practiced Flickot's "sedentary stretch" on a bamboo mat specially laid out in the bedroom. Mr. McGregor never, or rarely, misses morning exercises. Eight (lying flat, with the legs raised to a right angle, and the knees cannot be bent) is very painful for a forty-three-year-old man; Nine (lying flat, getting up to a sitting position, reaching the toes with your fingertips) is even more daunting. It doesn't matter, you have to stay healthy! As Mr. McGregor reached his toes with great force and pain, a stream of brick-red blood rushed up from his neck, so that his face was so congested that he almost threatened to suffer a stroke. Sweat glistened on his thick, fat chest. Persistence, persistence! People must stay healthy at all costs. Muhammad Ali, the porter, carried Mr. MacGregor's clean clothes on his arm and looked through the half-hidden door. His narrow, yellow Arab face showed neither understanding nor curiosity. For five years, he had seen this set of physical movements every morning, vaguely believing it to be a sacrificial ritual to some mysterious and demanding god.

Meanwhile, Westfield, who had long since left the house, was leaning against the scarred, ink-stained table in the police station, while the fat patrolman was interrogating a suspect, with two policemen watching him in the background. The suspect was a man in his mid-forties, with a gray, timid face, wrapped in a tattered robe that covered only the knees, and below the knees were thin, crooked calves covered with tick bite marks.

"What does this guy do?" Westfield asked.

"It's a thief, sir. We found him with a ring with a very valuable jadeite. Can't explain where it came from. How could he, a tinkling coolie, have an emerald ring? He must have stolen it. ”

He turned viciously to the suspect, stretched out his face like a male cat, almost touched the other's face, and rebuked in a loud voice:

"You stole the ring!"

"Nope."

"You're a repeat offender!"

"It's not."

"You've been in prison!"

"Nope."

"Turn around!" The patrol officer shouted in a flash of inspiration. "Bend down!"

The suspect turned his gray face to Westfield in pain, and Westfield turned his back to ignore it. Two policemen grabbed him, twisted him around, and pushed him down, and the patrolman pulled off his robe, exposing his buttocks.

"Look here, sir!" Pointing to the scar on it, he said, "He was once whipped with a bamboo whip." He's a repeat offender, so he's the one who stole the ring! ”

"Well, get him to his cell," Westfield said angrily, as he put his hands in his pockets and walked away from the table. Deep down, he didn't want to run into these unlucky thieves. If only the bandits and the rebels were these wretched, cowering rats! "How many people have you arrested in prison, Mumba?"

"Three, sir."

Upstairs from the detention center, a six-inch-wide wooden cage guarded by a policeman armed with a carbine. It was black and rumbling, so hot that it was breathless, and there was no furniture at all, only a stinking pit. Two prisoners crouched beside the wooden bars, reluctant to approach the other. The man was an Indian coolie, suffering from ringworm from head to toe, as if he were wearing a suit of armor. A sturdy Burmese woman, the wife of a police officer, was kneeling outside the cage, serving rice and thin Dasir into a small tin plate.

"Is the meal alright?" Westfield asked.

"Very well, my lord," said the prisoners in unison.

The government's food standard for prisoners is two and a half annas per person per meal, and the policeman's wife will try to get one of them.

Flory walked outside the house, strolled around the yard, and poked the weeds into the dirt with his cane. At this time, everything is painted in beautiful pale colors—the pale green of the leaves, the pinkish-brown of the earth and the trunk—like a watercolor lotion that is about to fade. On the playground, flocks of low-flying small brown pigeons chase each other, while emerald green bee-eaters frolic like slow-flying swallows. A team of sweepers was heading towards a dirty garbage pit, each with their burdens half-hidden under their coats, at the edge of the jungle. The poor hungry people, their arms and legs as thin as firewood, their knees so weak that they could not stand upright, and their bodies covered only by earthy yellow rags, walked like skeletons wrapped in corpse cloth.

The gardener is turning the soil for the new flower bed, which is next to the pigeon coop next to the gate. He was a slow-witted, stupid young Indian who lived a taciturn life because he spoke the Manipurma dialect that no one could understand, including his Zebadi Zebadi, the descendants of Indians and Burmese. His tongue was too big to fit in his mouth. He covered his face with his hands, gave Flory a deep bow, and then raised his shovel again, shoveling hard and clumsily into the dry earth, his delicate muscles trembling.

A shrill "rattle" scream came from the servant's quarters.

(End of chapter)