Now John Percival Hackworth, having checked into a suite on the top floor 
of the Shangri-La in Pudong (or Shong-a-lee-lah as the taxi-drivers 
sang it), put on a fresh shirt; his best waistcoat, girded with the gold chain, 
adangle with his chop, snuffboxes, fob, and watchphone; a long coat with a 
swallowtail for riding; boots, the black leather and brass
spurs hand-shined in the lobby of the Shong-a-lee-lah by a coolie who 
was so servile that he was insolent, and Hackworth suspected him of being a 
Fist; new kid gloves; and his bowler, de-mossed and otherwise spruced up a bit, 
but obviously a veteran of many travels in rough territory.