CHAPTER FIVE
IN the city of Marken, the capital of Marken, early rising might have been a crime. Here was no sordid place so highly fascinated by industry that lights began to glow in workmen's homes before the sun arose. Not thus in Marken! The only ones who opened windows in Marken at dawn were those who, usually with night-caps on their heads, poked the said night-capped heads out to look at the weather, then with all observations necessary for prognostication, shut the windows again and retired to "think it over" for an hour or two. True, if the day happened to be fair and somnolent, the sun, shining in their eyes through some quaint old lattice, or climbing almost boisterously like a second-story burglar into the depths of some high-hung balcony, caused them to arise grumbling. People in Marken always did the same things—came deliberately to the front doors and opened them, walked out into the narrow, cobbled streets, took another look at the weather, yawned, thrust their fingers through their hair, grunted "good morning" to their neighbours, and then sought the kitchen sink to wash
