It was the famous “narghili” of the East—­the thing the Grand Turk smokes in the pictures.  This began to look like luxury.  I took one blast at it, and it was sufficient; the smoke went in a great volume down into my stomach, my lungs, even into the uttermost parts of my frame.  I exploded one mighty cough, and it was as if Vesuvius had let go.  For the next five minutes I smoked at every pore, like a frame house that is on fire on the inside.  Not any more narghili for me.  The smoke had a vile taste, and the taste of a thousand infidel tongues that remained on that brass mouthpiece was viler still.  I was getting discouraged.  Whenever, hereafter, I see the cross-legged Grand Turk smoking his narghili, in pretended bliss, on the outside of a paper of Connecticut tobacco, I shall know him for the shameless humbug he is.

This prison was filled with hot air.  When I had got warmed up sufficiently to prepare me for a still warmer temperature, they took me where it was—­into a marble room, wet, slippery and steamy, and laid me out on a raised platform in the centre.  It was very warm.  Presently my man sat me down by a tank of hot water, drenched me well, gloved his hand with a coarse mitten, and began to polish me all over with it.  I began to smell disagreeably.  The more he polished the worse I smelt.  It was alarming.  I said to him: 

“I perceive that I am pretty far gone.  It is plain that I ought to be buried without any unnecessary delay.  Perhaps you had better go after my friends at once, because the weather is warm, and I can not ‘keep’ long.”

He went on scrubbing, and paid no attention.  I soon saw that he was reducing my size.  He bore hard on his mitten, and from under it rolled little cylinders, like maccaroni.  It could not be dirt, for it was too white.  He pared me down in this way for a long time.  Finally I said: 

“It is a tedious process.  It will take hours to trim me to the size you want me; I will wait; go and borrow a jack-plane.”

He paid no attention at all.

After a while he brought a basin, some soap, and something that seemed to be the tail of a horse.  He made up a prodigious quantity of soap-suds, deluged me with them from head to foot, without warning me to shut my eyes, and then swabbed me viciously with the horse-tail.  Then he left me there, a snowy statue of lather, and went away.  When I got tired of waiting I went and hunted him up.  He was propped against the wall, in another room, asleep.  I woke him.  He was not disconcerted.  He took me back and flooded me with hot water, then turbaned my head, swathed me with dry table-cloths, and conducted me to a latticed chicken-coop in one of the galleries, and pointed to one of those Arkansas beds.  I mounted it, and vaguely expected the odors of Araby a gain.  They did not come.