Yatchan's cries, early in the morning, seem to grate on the master's nerves. In an instant, he's seated himself bolt upright on the bedding. At this point, his cultivation of the spirit, together with Yagi Dokusen, are good as gone. In sitting up, he scratches his head vigorously with both hands. A month's worth of dandruff comes floating down in response, alighting on his pajama collar and the back of his neck. It's quite the sight. As for his whiskers, these too are something to behold. They're standing on end, stock straight. Perhaps sensing that they mustn't lie still through their owner's agitation, each hair is on edge, thrusting itself forward in its own chosen direction. Another minor spectacle. Just the day prior, owing in part to the scrutiny of the mirror, they'd lined up orderly, after the manner of his german mastesty Wilhem II. Just one night's sleep, though, and all grooming is forgotten. They've all reverted to their own habits, naturally facing this way and that. When I think on how this ill-tempered man, with these ill-tempered whiskers, has remained thus far in his teaching post, I can't but marvel at the vastness and variety of this land that's Japan. And it's this same vastness and variety that lets Kaneda and his snitches pass themselves off as respectable human beings. As long as Kaneda's lot are passing themselves off as respectable human beings, the master can reckon by way of self-assurance, then he himself has every right to continue in his duties as instructor. Should doubts ever arise, he can always fire off correspondence to Tendō Kōhei in Sugamo and seek erudition.