Now, Chan Master Ji Gong took his leave of Xiaoshan County and set off with Wang Xiong and Li Bao along the main road, making for Baishui Lake. On the way they ate when they were hungry and drank when they were thirsty, travelled by day and rested by night. One day they had just reached the East Gate of Shaoxing Prefecture when they saw the streets so packed with men and women that nobody could move. Wang Xiong and Li Bao asked a passer-by, “What’s all the excitement?” “The venerable Ji Gong is catching a demon at Baishui Lake,” someone said. “What?” said Wang Xiong. “We haven’t even got here yet, and already they know Ji Gong is coming to catch the demon?”

All around, people were talking it over. “I skipped a social call I owed, just to watch the demon-catching,” said one. “I didn’t even do any business today, just to watch the demon-catching,” said another. Just then they heard runners over there shooing the idlers aside: “His Excellency is coming! He and the venerable Ji Gong are stopping at the Temple of the Horse King1 for tea and a meal, and in a little while they’ll mount the platform and catch the demon.” Wang Xiong looked. At the front came whips and placards, chains and staves, flags and gongs, parasols and fans, and behind them followed two horses, a red one on the left and a white one on the right. On the red horse rode a big monk. By the look of him, he would stand a good ten feet tall once he got down. He had a big head, broad shoulders, a short, thick neck and a ruddy face. He wore a yellow robe, with a string of a hundred and eight prayer beads2 round his neck and a monk’s knife at his back, white socks and yellow monk’s shoes. He looked every inch an arhat. The rider on the white horse to the right was the prefect, Gu Guozhang, in a black gauze hat with outspread wings, a scarlet python robe3, a jade belt and official boots. Someone near by said, “Look at this venerable Ji Gong. He’s the very image of an arhat from the Han and Jin times.” “Maybe this isn’t Crazy Ji at all,” said another. “Crazy Ji is a crazy monk. His hair’s short, more than two inches long, his face is all mud, and his monk’s robe is in rags, with the sleeves half gone and a short collar. There’s a silk cord round his waist, all knots and lumps, and he goes barefoot, shuffling along in a pair of straw sandals, ragged beyond words, drunk and mad. That’s the real Crazy Ji.” He pointed at Ji Gong. “Just like this reverend here, not a bit different. If anything, dirtier than him.”

“Dirtier than me?” said the monk. “Do you know Ji Gong?” The man said whatever came into his head. “I know him. Crazy Ji and I are friends. Last summer I spent several months in Lin’an.” “Last summer weren’t you doing business in Yangzhou?” said the monk. “How did you get to Lin’an as well?” The man was taken aback. “I was doing business in Yangzhou. How do you know that?” “That’s for me to know,” said the monk. At this point Wang Xiong and Li Bao said, “Holy monk, look, they’ve got a Crazy Ji here. If you’re the real Crazy Ji, we’ll go ahead and deliver the letter. If you’re a false Crazy Ji, better not go asking for a snub.” “I don’t know myself whether I’m the real one or a false one,” said the monk. “You two see what you think best.” As they were talking, the horses came up. Ji Gong gave a shout: “You turtle4, you monkey, you dog! Let me at you!” He stepped across and seized the false Crazy Ji’s horse by the bit ring.