CHAPTER LXV.

HOW THE ORPHAN BECAME POSSESSED OF A FLUTE.

But we must leave Mole for a time, and return to our friends on their travels.

When next they landed at a Turkish town, Mr. Figgins went to a different hotel to that patronised by young Jack, whose practical joking was rather too much for the orphan.

But they found him out, and paid him a visit one morning.

After the first greeting, Mr. Figgins was observed to be unusually thoughtful.

At length, after a long silence he exclaimed--

"I can't account for it, I really can't."

"What can't you account for, Mr. Figgins?" asked young Jack.

"The strange manners of the people of this country," answered the orphan.

"Of what is it you have to complain particularly?" inquired Jack.

"Well, it's this; wherever I go, I seem to be quite an object of curiosity."

"Of interest you mean, Mr. Figgins," returned Jack, winking at Harry Girdwood; "you are an Englishman, you know, and Englishmen are always very interesting to foreigners."

"I can't say as to that," the orphan replied; "I only know I can't show my nose out of doors without being pointed at."

"Ah, yes. You excite interest the moment you make your appearance."

"Then, if I walk in the streets, dark swarthy men stare at me and follow me till I have quite a crowd at my heels."

"Another proof of the interest they take in you."

"Well, I don't like it at all," said the orphan, fretfully; "and then the dogs bark at me in a very distressing manner."

"It's the only way they have of bidding you welcome," remarked Harry Girdwood.

"I wish they wouldn't take any notice of me at all; it's a nuisance."

"Perhaps you'd like them to leave off barking, and take to biting?"

"No, it's just what I shouldn't like, but it's what I'm constantly afraid they will do," wailed the poor orphan.

There was a slight pause, during which young Jack and his comrade grinned quietly at each other, and presently the former said--

"I think I can account for all this."

"Can you?" asked Mr. Figgins. "How?"

"It all lies in the dress you wear."

"In the dress?"

"Yes; you are in a Turkish country, and although I admit you look well in your splendid new tourist suit, cross-barred all over in four colours, I fancy it would be better if you dressed as a Turk during your stay here."

"A Turk, Jack?"

"Yes; now, if you were to have your head shaved, and dress yourself like a Turk," said Jack, "all this wonderment would cease, and you would go out, and come in, without exciting any remark."

Mr. Figgins fell back in his chair.

"Ha-ha-have my head sha-a-ved, dress myself up li-like a Turk?" he gasped. "You surely don't mean that?"

"I do, indeed," replied Jack, seriously.

"What? Wear baggy breeches, and an enormous turban, and slippers turned up at the toes! What would the natives say?"

"Why, they'd say you were a very sensible individual," remarked Harry. "Don't you remember the old saying?--'When you're in Turkey, you must do as Turkey does.'"

Mr. Figgins reflected for a moment.

"And you really think if I were to go in, for a regular Turkish fit-out, I should be allowed to enjoy my walks in peace?" he asked, at length.

"Decidedly," answered his counsellors, with the utmost gravity.

"Then I'll take your advice, and be a Turk until further notice," said the orphan; "but there's one thing still."

"What's that?"

"My complexion isn't near dark enough for one of these infidels."

"Oh, that won't matter," said Jack; "only slip into the Turkish togs. Go in for any quantity of turban, and they won't care a button about your complexion."

"Very well, then, that's settled; I'll turn Turk at once. But must I have my head shaved?"

"That's important," said Jack.

Having made up his mind on that point, the orphan at once put on his hat, and taking a sip of brandy to compose his nerves, he sallied forth, directing his steps to the nearest barber's.

On his way thither he attracted the usual amount of attention, and when he reached the barber's shop, he found himself accompanied by a select crowd of deriding Turks, and a dozen or so of yelping curs, shouting and barking in concert.

The barber received him with the extreme of Eastern courtesy.

"What does the English signor require at the hands of the humblest of his slaves?" was the deferential inquiry.

"I have a fancy to turn Turk, and I want my head shaved," explained Mr. Figgins, nervously; "pray be careful, since I'm only a poor orphan, who----"

Before he had time to finish his sentence, he found himself wedged into a chair with a towel under his chin.

The next moment his head, under the energetic manipulation of the operator, was a creamy mass of lather.

"Be sure and don't cut my head off," murmured the orphan, as he watched the razor flashing to and fro along the strop.

"Your servant will not disturb the minutest pimple," said the barber.

With wonderful celerity, the artist went to work.

In less than two minutes the cranium of Mark Antony Figgins was as smooth and destitute of hair as a bladder of lard.

Then followed the process of shampooing, which was very soothing to the orphan's feelings.

At length, the operation being completed, the barber bade the orphan put on his hat--which from the loss of his hair went over his eyes and rested on his nose--and left the shop.

His friends--the mob and the dogs--had waited for him outside very patiently.

If his appearance had been interesting before, their interest was now greatly increased.

A loud shout welcomed him, and he proceeded along the street under difficulties, holding his hat in one hand, with the crowd at his heels.

Straight to the bazaar he went.

Here he found a venerable old Turkish Jew, who seemed to divine by instinct what he wanted.

"Closhe, shignor, closhe," he cried in broken English. "Shtep in and take your choice."

Before the bewildered orphan knew where he was, he found himself in the interior of Ibrahim's emporium.

Here a profusion of garments were displayed before his eyes.

Having no preference for any particular colour, he took what the Jew pressed upon him.

In a short time his costume was complete, consisting of a pair of ample white trousers, and a blue shirt, surmounted by a crimson vest, secured at the waist by a purple sash, and on his feet a pair of yellow slippers of Morocco leather.

The turban alone was wanting.

"Be sure and let me have a good big turban," urged Mr. Figgins.

Ibrahim assured him that he should have one as big as he could carry, and he kept his word.

Unrolling a great many yards of stuff, he formed a turban of enormous dimensions of green and yellow stripe, which he placed upon the head of his customer.

"Shall I do? Do I look like a native Turk?" asked the latter, after he had put on his things.

"Do?" echoed the Jew, exultingly. "If it ish true dat de closhe makes de man, you vill do excellent vell, and de people vill not now run after you."

Mr. Figgins having settled his account with the Hebrew clothier, and paid just three times as much as he ought to have done, went out again with considerable confidence, looking as gaudy in his mixture of bright colours as a macaw.

"No one will dare to jeer at me now," he persuaded himself.

But he was mistaken.

Hardly had he taken a half dozen steps when his brilliant costume attracted great notice.

"What a splendid Turk!" cried some.

"Who is that magnificent bashaw?" asked others, as he strutted past.

No one knew, and upon a nearer examination it was seen that the "splendid Turk" and "magnificent bashaw" was no Turk at all.

Indignation seized upon those who had a moment before been filled with admiration.

"Impostor, unbelieving dog!" shouted the enraged populace. "He is an accursed Giaour, in the dress of a follower of the Prophet."

At this, a fierce yell rose upon the air.

"Down with the wretch!"

"Tear him to pieces!"

"Let him be impaled!" cried the multitude.

With these dire threats, the angry crowd rushed towards Mr. Figgins, headed by a short, fat Turk, who was particularly indignant.

The luckless orphan, anxious to avoid the terrible doom that was threatening him, rushed away in an opposite direction.

The Turks are not, as a rule, remarkable for swift running.

Mr. Figgins, whose pace was quickened by the dreadful prospect of a stake through his body, would have easily distanced them.

But unfortunately, his green and yellow striped turban, dislodged from its position, fell--as his hat had previously done--over his eyes, and almost smothered him.

He tugged away at it as he ran, in order to get rid of it.

But all he succeeded in doing was to loosen one of the ends.

Gradually the turban began to unwind itself, the end trailing on the ground.

The Turk in pursuit caught up this end, and grasping it firmly, brought all his weight to bear upon the fugitive.

Suddenly the hapless Figgins began to feel strong symptoms of strangulation.

The next moment, a sharp jerk from the burly Turk pulled him to the ground.

But this saved him.

No sooner was he prostrate on his back than the turban slipped from his head, and he was free.

Springing to his feet, he darted off at a speed which no human grocer could ever have dreamt of.

He was soon far beyond pursuit.

All he had lost was his green and yellow striped turban.

But the loss of that, though it somewhat fretted him, had saved his life.

He found himself in a retired spot, and no one being near, he sat down to reflect and recover his breath.

"What a country this is," he thought; "pleasant enough, though, as far as the climate goes; but the people in it are awful! What a lot of bloodthirsty, bilious-looking wretches, to be sure; ready to consign to torture and death a poor innocent, unprotected orphan because he happens to be of a different colour from themselves!"

So perturbed were the thoughts of Mr. Figgins that he was obliged to smoke a cigar to soothe himself.

But even this failed to quiet his agitated nerves.

His mind was full of gloomy apprehensions.

"Where am I?" he asked himself. "How am I to get home? I shall be sure to meet some of the rabble, and with them and the dogs I shall be torn to pieces. What will become of me--wretched orphan that I am! What shall I do?"

Hardly had he uttered these distressful exclamations when a prolonged note of melody caught his ear.

"Hark!" he said to himself, "there is music. 'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,' says the poet, and it seems to have a soothing effect upon my nerves."

The strain had died away, and was heard no longer.

Mark Antony Figgins was in despair.

"Play again, sweet instrument," he cried, anxiously, "play again."

Again the sweet note sounded and again the solitary orphan felt comforted.

"It's a flute; it must be a flute," he murmured to himself, as he listened. "I always liked the flute. It's so soft and melancholy."

The grocer had a faint recollection of his boyhood's days, when he had been a tolerably efficient performer on a penny whistle.

Just at this moment the mournful note he heard recalled the past vividly.

So vividly, that Mr. Figgins, in the depths of his loneliness, fixed his eyes sadly on the turned-up toes of his leather slippers, and wept.

As the melody proceeded, so did the drops pour more copiously from the orphan's eyes.

And no wonder, for of all the doleful too-tooings ever uttered by wind instrument, this was the dolefullest.

But it suited Mr. Figgin's mood at that moment.

"It's a Turkish flute, I suppose," he sobbed; "but it's very beau-u-u-tiful. I wish I had a flute."

He got up and looked round, and found himself outside an enclosure of thick trees.

It was evidently within this enclosure the flute player was located.

As the reader knows, there was nothing bold or daring about Mark Antony Figgins.

But now the flute seemed to have inspired him with a kind of supernatural recklessness.

"I'd give almost any thing for that flute," he murmured to himself. "I feel that I should like to play the flute. I wonder who it is playing it, and whether he'd sell it?"

The unseen performer, at this juncture, burst forth into such a powerfully shrill cadence that the orphan was quite thrilled with delight.

"A railway whistle's a fool to it!" he cried, as he clapped his hands in ecstasy. "Bravo, bravo! Encore!"

Having shouted his applause till he was hoarse, he walked along by the side of the wall, seeking anxiously for some place of entrance.

At length he came to an open gate.

A stout gentleman--unmistakably a Turk--with a crimson cap on his head, ornamented with a tassel, and a long, reed-like instrument in his hand, was looking cautiously forth.

It was evidently the musician, who, having been interrupted in his solo, had come to see who the delinquent was that had disturbed him.

The enthusiastic Figgins had caught sight of the flute, and that was sufficient.

Forgetting his usual nervous timidity, he rushed forward.

"My dear sir," he exclaimed, "it was exquisite--delicious! Pray oblige me with another tune--or, if you have no objection, let me attempt one."

As he spoke, the excited Figgins stretched forth both his hands.

The owner of the flute, who evidently suspected an attempt at robbery, quietly placed his instrument behind him, and looking hard at Figgins, said sternly--

"What son of a dog art thou?"

To which Figgins replied mildly--

"You're mistaken, my dear sir; I'm the son of my father and mother, but they--alas!--are no more, and I am now only a poor desolate orphan."

The tears trickled from his eyes as he spoke.

The Turk did not appear in the least affected.

"What bosh is all this?" he asked, after a moment, in a hard, unsympathetic tone.

"It's no bosh at all, I assure you, my dear signor," replied Figgins, earnestly; "the fact is, I heard you play on your flute, and its sweet tones so soothed my spirits--which are at this moment extremely low--that I am come to make several requests."

"Umph!" growled the Turk; "what are they?"

"First, that you will play me another of your charming airs, next, that you will allow me to attempt one myself, and thirdly, that you will sell me the instrument you hold in your hand.'"

The Turk glared for a moment fiercely at the proposer of these modest requests, and then politely wishing the graves of his departed relatives might be perpetually defiled, he replied curtly--

"First, I am not going to play any more to-night; next, I will see you in Jehanum[1] before I allow you to play; and thirdly, I won't sell my flute."

[1] The abode of lost spirits.

With these words, he stepped back into the garden and slammed the gate in Mr. Figgins' face.

"I shall never get over this," Figgins murmured to himself, gloomily; "that flute would have cheered my solitary hours, and that ruthless Turk refuses to part with it. Now, indeed, I feel my peace of mind is gone forever."

His grief at this juncture became so overpowering, that he leant against the door, and in his despair hammered it with his head.

Suddenly the door burst open, and the distressed orphan, in all his brilliant array, shot backwards into some shrubs of a prickly nature, whose sharp thorns added to his agonizing sensations.

"Will anybody be kind enough to put an end to my misery?" he wailed, as he lay on his back, feeling as though he had been transformed into a human pincushion.

He was not a little surprised to hear a familiar voice exclaim--

"Lor' bless me! dat you, Massa Figgins?"

Glancing up, he espied the black face of Bogey looking down upon him.

"Yes, it's me," he answered, in a wailing tone; "help me up."

"Gib me you fist," cried Bogey.

Mr. Figgins extended his hand, and the negro grasping it, by a vigorous jerk hoisted the prostrate grocer out of his thorny bed, tingling all over as though he had been stung by nettles.

Bogey was quite astounded at the transformation of his dress.

"Why, Massa Figgins, what out-and-out guy you look!" he exclaimed; "whar all you hair gone to?"

The orphan only groaned.

He was thinking of another h-air (without the h), the air he had heard on the Turkish flute.

Just at that moment the too-too-too of the instrument sounded again.

Figgins stood like one absorbed.

All his agonizing pains were at once forgotten.

"How sweet, how plaintive!" he murmured to himself; "too-too-too, tooty-tooty-too!" he hummed, in imitation of the sound.

Bogey heard it also, and involuntarily put his hands on big stomach and made a comically wry face.

"Whar dat orful squeakin' row?" he asked.

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed the orphan, holding up his hands reprovingly, and turning up his eyes at the same time; "it's heavenly music; it's a flute, my boyhood's favourite instrument."

"Gorra!" muttered Bogey; "it 'nuff to gib a fellar de mullingrubs all down him back and up him belly."

He looked towards Mr. Figgins, and seeing him standing with his hands clasped looking like a white-washed Turk in a trance, he said--

"What de matter wid yer, Massa Figgins? Am you ill?"

"That flute, that melodious flute, that breathes forth dulcet notes of peace," murmured the orphan, in a deep, absorbed whisper. "I must have that flute."

Bogey felt a little anxious.

"Me t'ink Massa Figgins getting lilly soft in him nut; him losing him hair turn him mad," he said to himself.

"I must have that flute," repeated the grocer, in the same abstracted tone and manner. "I should think it cheap at ten pounds."

Bogey, on hearing this, opened his eyes very wide.

He thought he saw a chance of doing a profitable bit of business on his own account.

So, after an instant, he said quietly--

"Good flute worth more dan ten pounds; rale good blower like dat worth twenty at de bery least."

"Yes, yes; I'd give twenty willingly," murmured the wrapt Figgins.

"Bery good," said Bogey, as he instantly disappeared through the gate.

The orphan remained waiting without.

The "too-too-tooing" was going on in the usual doleful and melancholy manner, and guided by the sound, Bogey crept forward till he came in sight of the performer, who was seated in a snug nook in his garden playing away to his heart's content; or, as the negro supposed, endeavouring to frighten away the birds.

Bogey took stock of the stout player and his flute.

Creeping along the shrubbery till he had got exactly opposite to the flautist, he, in the midst of the too-too-tooing, uttered an unearthly groan.

"Inshallah!" exclaimed the Turk, stopping suddenly; "what was that?"

"It war me," groaned the hidden Bogey more deeply than before.

"Who are you?" faltered the musician, hearing the mysterious voice, but seeing no one.

"Me am special messenger from de Prophet," Bogey replied.

"Allah Kerim! my dream is coming true. Is it the Prophet speaks?" gasped the Turk, his olive cheeks turning the hue of saffron.

"Iss, it de profit brings me here," returned Bogey, truthfully.

"What message does he send to his slave?" asked the old Turk.

"He say you make sich orful row wid dat flute he can git no sleep, an', derefore, he send me to stop it. You got to gib up de flute direckly."

The teeth of the half-silly musician were chattering in his head.

His optics rolled wildly from side to side.

Just at this crisis Bogey, with his eyes glaring and his white teeth fully exposed, thrust his black face from the foliage.

"Drop it," he cried, with a hideous grin.

He had no occasion to repeat the command.

With a yell of terror the horrified Turkish gentleman, who was really half an idiot, and was just then away from his keepers, let fall his instrument from his trembling fingers, and starting up, waddled away from the spot as though the furies were after him, while the special messenger of the Prophet quietly picked up the flute with a chuckle, and retraced his steps to the gate.

Here he found Mr. Figgins.

He could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw the negro with the precious instrument in his hand.

"The flute, the flute!" he cried, "the soother of sorrow, the orphan's comforter. Let me clutch you in my grasp. Oh, it brings back my boyhood's days."

As he spoke, he rushed forward eagerly to seize the treasure.

But Bogey stuck to it.

"Money fust, Massa Figgins," he said, with a grin, "twenty poun' am de price, yah know, an' dis a fuss-rate blower. Too-too-too, tooty-tum-too," he sounded on the instrument.

The orphan was frantic.

"I haven't twenty pounds with me," he exclaimed, excitedly, "but I'll pay you the moment we get home, and five pounds over for interest. You know I'm well off, and am also a man of my word."

Bogey did know this, and was not afraid to trust him.

"Well, den, dere de flute," he said; "but don't begin too-too-tooin' till we git good way off, else p'r'aps de gem'l'm wid de red cap hear and send a dog arter de speshal messenger of de Prophet."

Mr. Figgins pledged himself not to blow a note till they were a mile from the spot at least, and on the strength of this promise, Bogey gave him up the instrument.

But no sooner did the excited orphan find it in his possession than he forgot all his promises, and putting the flute to his lips, he at once commenced "The Girl I Left Behind Me," in the most brilliant manner--so brilliant indeed that it reached the ears of the owner inside, and, as Bogey had shrewdly suspected would be the case, the latter began to have some slight suspicions that he had been done out of his flute by an impostor.

Very soon his voice was heard calling his dogs, and almost immediately loud barkings were heard.

"Run, run, Massa Figgins, or de dogs tear yah to pieces," shouted Bogey.

"They may tear me limb from limb," returned the orphan "but they shan't rob me of my flute."

And without taking the instrument from his lips, off he ran playing "Cheer, Boys, Cheer," as he hurried along.

The next moment out rushed several gaunt-looking animals, and gave chase to the musical Figgins, urged on by their mad master, who was following them.

Bogey waited for him at the gate.

As he came forth puffing, grunting, and blowing, the negro put out his foot, and over he went on his nose.

"Go back, massa bag breeches," cried Bogey, fiercely.

He added to the effect of his words by applying a switch he carried to the fat hind-quarters of the Turk, who was glad to scramble in at his gate on all fours, and shut it to keep out the "special messenger" and his cane.

When Bogey came up with Mr. Figgins, he found that usually timid personage with his back against a tree, doing battle with his canine foes, who were making sad havoc with his Moslem garments.

"Bravo, Massa Figgins," cried Bogey, as he rushed in among the yelping pack, "we soon get rid of dese heah."

With this he laid about him with such energy that the Turkish dogs, utterly bewildered, dropped their ears, and tucking their tails between their legs, slunk howling away, whilst the triumphant orphan accompanied their flight with a lively tune on his flute.

Accompanied by Bogey, Mark Antony reached his quarters in safety.

He then promptly paid the price of his instrument, and at once set himself steadily to practise, to the great horror of all in the house.

* * * *

A week passed. Then the following conversation took place between young Jack Harkaway and his comrade Harry Girdwood.

"I say, old fellow, are you fond of music?"

"Well, it all depends what sort of music it is," Jack replied.

"What do you think of Figgins' instrumental performance?"

"Well, I think it's an awful row."

"So do I; but he doesn't seem to think so."

"No; he's always at it; all day long and half through the night; he'll blow himself inside his flute if he goes on at this rate. I consider it comes under the head of a nuisance."

"Most decidedly," said Jack, "and like other nuisances, must be put a stop to."

"All right: let's send for him at once."

Bogey was summoned and dispatched with a polite message from young Jack, that he would be glad to speak to him.

On receiving the message, he repaired at once to the room where Jack and Harry Girdwood were located, preparing another practical joke for the benefit of the orphan.

Mr. Figgins took his flute with him, and too-tooed all the way till he reached the door of Jack's room.

For Jack and Harry, it should be mentioned, had followed the orphan to his new abode, and secured rooms in the same house.

He entered.

"Sit down, Mr. Figgins," said Jack.

Mr. Figgins sat down, nursing his flute.

"I have sent for you," Jack commenced.

"Ah, I see, you wish for a tune," cried the orphan, with much hilarity, as he put the flute to his lips and began to play.

"On the contrary," cried Jack, quickly; "it's just what we don't wish for; we should be glad if you'd come to a stop."

Mr. Figgins opened his eyes with astonishment.

"Come to a stop," he echoed; "is it possible that you wish to stop my flute? Why, I thought you liked music."

"So I do," Jack replied, drily, "when it is music."

"And isn't my flute music? Are not its tones soft and sweet and soothing to the spirits?"

"We have found them quite the reverse," Jack assured him; "in fact, if you don't put away your flute, you'll drive us both mad, and then I wouldn't like to answer for the consequences--which might be awful."

Mr. Figgins looked aghast.

"The idea of such exquisite music as my instrument discourses driving anyone mad," he exclaimed at length, "is past belief."

"You may call it exquisite music, but we call it an awful row," Jack replied, candidly, "therefore have the goodness to shut up."

The orphan drew himself up and clutched his flute in a kind of convulsive indignation.

"I object to shutting up, Mr. Harkaway," he exclaimed, determinately; "in fact, I will not shut up. In this dulcet instrument I have found a balm for all my woes, and I intend to play it incessantly for the rest of my existence."

"You'll blow yourself into a consumption," said Harry Girdwood.

"Well, if I do, I'm only a poor orphan whom no one will regret," returned Mr. Figgins, a tear trickling down his nose at the thought of his lonely condition; "I shall die breathing forth some mournful melody, and my flute will----"

"You can leave that to us as a legacy, and we'll put it under a glass case," said Harry.

"No; my flute shall be buried with me in the silent grave."

"We don't care what you do with it after you're dead," returned Jack, "but we object to being annoyed with it while you're alive."

"Oh, you shan't be exposed to any further annoyances on my account," said the orphan, rising grandly; "I and my flute will take our departure together."

With these words he left the room, and very shortly afterwards quitted the house.

* * * *

Mr. Figgins being determined to keep apart from the Harkaway party, gave up the rooms he had taken, and after some search found another lodging in the upper chamber of a house in a retired part of the town.

Here he determined to settle down, and devote himself with more ardour than ever to the practice of his favourite instrument.

* * * *

It was night.

Mr. Figgins was in bed, but he could get no sleep.

Curious insects, common to Eastern climes, crawled forth from chinks in the walls and cracks in the floor, and nibbled the orphan in various parts of his anatomy till he felt as if the surface of his skin was one large blister.

"What a dreadful climate is this," he murmured, as he sat up in bed; "nothing but creeping things everywhere. Phew! what's to be done?"

He reflected a moment.

"I have it!" he exclaimed, "my flute, my precious flute, that will soothe me."

Hopping nimbly out of bed, he dressed himself in his European costume, seized his instrument, and began a tune.

He had been playing all day long, and the other lodgers in the house were congratulating themselves on the cessation of the infliction, when suddenly the instrumental torture commenced again.

"Too-too, too-tum-too, tooty-tum, tooty-tum, too-tum-too," went the flute, in a more shrill and vigorous manner than ever, whilst a select party of dogs, attracted by the melody, assembled under the window and howled in concert.

In the chamber next to that occupied by the infatuated Figgins lodged a Turk, Bosja by name.

Bosja, in the first place, had no taste for music, and particularly detested the sound of a flute.

Secondly, he was suffering from an excruciating toothache, and the incessant too-tum, too-tum, tooty-tum-too--with the additional music of the dogs--drove him mad.

He was sitting up with his pipe in his mouth, and a green, yellow-striped turban pulled down over his ears, trying to shut out the sound, but in vain.

"Oh, oh! Allah be merciful to me!" he groaned, as the irritated nerve gave him an extra twinge.

"Too-too, too-tum-too, too-tum, too-tum, tooty-tum-too," from the orphan's flute answered him.

"Allah confound the wretch with his tooty-tum-too!" growled the distracted sufferer; "if he only knew what I am enduring."

But this Mr. Figgins did not know.

Probably he would not have cared if he had known, and he continued to pour forth melodious squeakings to his own entire satisfaction.

At length the patience of Bosja was utterly exhausted, and he summoned the landlady.

"What son of Shitan have you got in the next room?" he demanded of her, fiercely.

"I know very little of him," returned the mistress of the house; "only that he is a Frankish gentleman, who dresses sometimes as a Turk, and has lately come to lodge here."

"He is a dog, and the son of a dog! May his flute choke him, and his father's grave be defiled!" growled the irascible Turk, "tell him to leave off, or I will kill him and burn his flute."

The landlady went at once and tapped at the door of the musical lodger.

There was no response save the too-too-too of the flute.

"Signor!" she called after a moment.

"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Figgins from within; "do you wish me to come and play you a tune?" and he then continued "too-too, tooty-too."

"The gentleman in the next room objects to the sound of your flute."

"Does he?--tooty-too, tooty-too."

"Yes; and he begs you'll leave off."

"I shan't!--tooty-tum, tooty-tum, tooty-too. I intend to play all night."

The landlady, having delivered her message, went downstairs.

Mr. Figgins still continued to blow away and the agonized Bosja to mutter curses not loud, but deep, upon his head and his instrument.

But patience has its limits, and Bosja, never remarkable for that virtue, having sworn all the oaths he knew twice over, at last sprang from his bed, and dashing down his pipe, rapped fiercely at the wall.

"What do you want? Shall I come and play a few tunes to you?" inquired the orphan, placidly pausing for an instant.

"You vile son of perdition, stop that accursed noise!" shouted the Turk.

"Too-too, tooty-too."

"Do you hear, unbelieving dog?"

"Tooty-too--yes, I hear--tooty-tooty-tooty-too."

"Then why don't you stop?"

"Because I intend to go on--too-tum-too--all night"

"But you're driving me to distraction."

"Nonsense; go to bed and sleep--tooty-tum, tooty-tum, tooty-too. You will like the beautiful flute in time."

"But I can't sleep with that infernal tooty-too in any ears, and I've got the toothache."

"Have it out. You'll feel better."

This cool irony on the part of Mr. Figgins was like oil poured upon the fierce temper of the irascible Bosja, and he shouted loudly--

"If I hear any more of that diabolical 'tootum-too,' I swear by Allah I'll take your life, and give your body to the crows and vultures."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the reckless Figgins. "Tooty-tum, tooty-tum, too-tum--"

But before he could finish his musical phrase, the maddened Bosja had seized his scimitar, and rushed like a bull at the partition.

The partition was thin, the Turk was burly and thick, and he plunged through head first into the orphan's apartment, to the no little surprise and dismay of the latter.

It was quite a picture.

Bosja waved his weapon over his head; Mark Antony Figgins hopped upon the bed and wrapped himself tightly round in the clothes, clutching his flute to his side.

For a moment the pair stood glaring at each other.

"Your flute, vile dog, or your life," shouted the Turk.

"I object to part with either," cried the orphan. "Go and have your tooth out, and be happy."

Down came the scimitar with a swish in the direction of his head.

But the grocer had quickly withdrawn it beneath the clothes.

Not to be thwarted, however, in his vengeance, the burly Bosja swooped down upon the heap, and dragged them up in his grasp, the orphan included.

"Now I have you," he cried, as he seized the obnoxious flute.

"Give me my instrument, infidel," shrieked the orphan, as he threw off the blanket, and clung to the flute with desperation.

At the same moment, he recognised the green and yellow-striped turban on the head of the Turk.

It was Bosja into whose hands it had fallen, when Mr. Figgins was escaping from the mob.

"That is my turban," he cried, as with one hand he dragged it from his enemy's head, with dauntless vehemence, and bringing his flute down with a smart crack on the Turk's bald pate.

The Turk, who was much more of a bully than a hero, was quite confounded at the excited energy which the Frankish lodger displayed. Dropping his scimitar, he then had a struggle for the flute.

Round the room they went, pulling and hauling.

At length, lurching against the door, it burst open.

The combatants now found themselves on the landing.

Here the struggle continued, till, at length, giving a desperate tug, the flute came in half, and Bosja fell backwards, head over heels, down the stairs, with the upper joint of the instrument in his hand.

The landlady, who thought the house was falling, came hurrying to see what had happened, and found the Turk lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, with the breath almost knocked out of his body.

It took some time to bring him to himself.

It was just as he was recovering there was a loud knocking at the street door.

On opening it, a body of Turkish soldiers appeared drawn up in front of it.

"What is the cause of this disturbance?" inquired the leader of the troop.

Bosja quickly gave his own version of what had happened.

Of course, it was highly exaggerated.

He, a true believer, had been assaulted, robbed of his turban, and thrown downstairs by a rascally dog of a Giaour, who lodged in a room next to him.

This was quite sufficient to arouse the indignation of the officer, and, with three of his troop, that functionary ascended to seize the delinquent.

But, on reaching the room, it was discovered to be empty.

"The Frankish hound laughs at our beards," said the officer. "He has escaped by the window."

And such had been the intention of Mark Antony Figgins.

But not being accustomed to such perilous descents, he had found himself baffled in his flight, and was now perched on a ledge, half way between the window and the ground, unable either to proceed or to return.

He was soon espied by the soldiers, and a shout announced his detection.

A ladder was quickly procured, and the luckless orphan very shortly found himself a prisoner.

"What dirt have you been eating?" demanded the officer, sternly.

"I haven't been eating dirt at all," returned the indignant Figgins, "but I believe that fat Turk has swallowed half of my flute."

Bosja came forward at this with the missing portion in his hand, and handed it to the officer.

The orphan made a snatch at it, but received only a box on the ear from the officer.

The other half of his cherished instrument was wrested from him, and he marched off to the lock-up until the case could be tried on the morrow before the bashaw.