CHAPTER LXVI.

HOW THE FLUTE ADVENTURE TERMINATED.

The morrow had come.

Hearing that a Frank was to be tried, the court was crowded.

At the appointed hour Mark Antony Figgins, looking particularly doleful, was conducted from his cell to the presence of the administrator of the law.

Osman, the ruling bashaw, although a Turk, was a regular Tartar to deal with.

He administered plenty of law, but very little justice; if the latter was required, money was the bashaw's idol, and it must be handsomely paid for.

As soon as the parties were brought in, the judicial potentate eyed them sternly for some time.

Then he said--

"Which is the plaintiff?"

"I am," exclaimed Bosja.

"No; I am," exclaimed Mr. Figgins.

"What bosh is this?" cried the bashaw; "you can't both be plaintiffs."

"Most high and mighty, he robbed me of my turban and knocked me down stairs," affirmed Bosja.

"No, your worship; he robbed me of my turban and stole half my flute," protested the orphan.

The official dignitary frowned and shut his eyes reflectively.

He foresaw that he had a case of unusual intricacy before him, and he was thinking how he should deal with it.

After a moment he opened his eyes, rubbed his nose profoundly, and sneezed.

All the officials imitated their superior by rubbing their noses and sneezing in concert.

The uproar was tremendous.

Order being at length restored, the bashaw fixed his eyes upon Bosja, and said to him--

"Let me hear what you have to say."

"It is this. Your slave last night was troubled with the toothache, and retired to his couch. The pain kept me awake, and just as I was going to sleep--"

"Stop!" cried the bashaw; "you say that the pain kept you awake, and then you say you were going to sleep. You couldn't be awake and asleep at the same time."

A hum of applause ran round the court at this sagacious remark.

"He speaks the words of wisdom," murmured some.

"What a lawyer he is," whispered others.

"I had been awake for some hours," explained Bosja, "when the pain lulled a little, and I began to doze."

"Well, you began to doze, and then?"

"Then I was disturbed by a dreadful squeaking noise in the next room."

"A rat?"

"No, your highness; a flute."

"That was my flute, your worship," cried the indignant orphan; "whose dulcet tone he calls a dreadful sque----"

"Silence, dog," shouted the bashaw.

"Silence," shouted everyone else.

"Continue," said the judge to Bosja.

"I endured the dreadful sound as long as I could, until the anguish of my tooth became so great I could bear it no longer, and I sent a civil messenger to the Frank yonder to cease."

"And he complied with your request?"

"Not he, your mightiness. He played all the louder, and the dreadful noise he made nearly killed me."

"I was in my own room, your worship," interposed Mr. Figgins, "and had a right to play as loud as I liked."

The bashaw here referred to his vizier.

"What says the law?" he asked, in a low tone. "Does it permit a man to do what he likes in his own room?"

The vizier scratched his nose and reflected.

All the officials scratched their noses and reflected.

After a moment the vizier replied--

"It all depends, most wise and illustrious. If the owner of the room be a true believer, he may turn it upside down if he please, not else."

"Good; and this flute-player is an infidel--a dog."

"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm a retired grocer," put in Figgins, who overheard the remark.

"Silence," growled the bashaw; "go on, plaintiff."

"Well, your highness," continued Bosja, "I continued to get worse and worse under this dreadful 'too-tooting', until at last, driven to desperation, I sprang from my bed, and hammered at the wall, imploring him to be quiet."

"And he still refused?"

"He did, your mightiness."

"And you?"

"I was imploring Allah to soften his unmerciful heart, when suddenly he burst through the partition, which was thin----"

"No, no, no, your worship," interrupted Mr. Figgins, vehemently, "it was he who burst through, not me."

"Silence," cried the bashaw; "dare not to interrupt the words of truth."

"But they're not words of truth, your worship; they're abominable--false."

"Silence, dog," shouted the potentate, crimson with anger.

"Silence, dog," echoed the rest of the judicial body.

"Continue, plaintiff."

"Well, your highness," went on Bosja, "he then seized me violently, tore my turban from my head, and endeavoured to thrust his diabolical, 'too-tooing' instrument down my throat."

"To which you objected?"

"Strongly, your highness. I seized the flute in self-defence, and it came in half in my hand, and he then dragged me from the room, and with gigantic strength, hurled me backwards down the stairs."

"Allah Kerin, it was a mercy your back was not broken," exclaimed the bashaw.

"I feel sore all over, your highness," said Bosja, ruefully, "and fear I am seriously injured."

"And the culprit was endeavouring to escape, was he not?" asked the judge.

"He was, your mightiness, when my soldiers discovered him clinging to the wall," replied the officer of the soldiers.

"Wallah thaih, it is well said."

The bashaw conferred again with his vizier for a moment, and then, turning towards the luckless Figgins, who found himself changed from the plaintiff into the defendant, he said to him sternly--

"And now, unbelieving dog, what have you to say?"

"Only this," the orphan replied, without hesitation; "that that witness has uttered a tissue of abominable lies."

"I have spoken naught but the truth," exclaimed the unblushing Bosja, solemnly. "Bashem ustun, upon my head be it."

"Well, let us hear what account you have to give," said the bashaw to the defendant.

"My account is very simple," said Figgins. "I was playing my flute, when that Turk insisted on my stopping. I considered I had a right to do as I liked in my own apartment and refused."

"You had no right to do as you liked."

"What, not in my own chamber that I had paid for?"

"Certainly not."

Mr. Figgins shook his clenched fist fiercely in the air at this extraordinary declaration.

"There's neither law nor justice here," he cried, indignantly. "In England----"

"You're not in England, dog," shouted the bashaw, "you're in Turkey."

The orphan felt painfully at that moment that he was.

"I don't care how soon I'm out of such a miserable den of thieves and rogues," he said.

"What does the fellow say?" demanded the bashaw, who did not quite understand all the orphan said.

"He says his face will be whitened by the rays of your highness's wisdom, the like to which he has never before seen," the vizier interpreted.

"Umph!" growled his superior.

Then addressing himself once more to the defendant, he said--

"Go on."

"Well, in the midst of my practice that fat Turk burst through the partition of my room, scimitar in hand. The first thing I saw on his head was my turban, which I lost a week ago. I seized my own property----"

"Inshallah!" shouted the bashaw, "this fellow is telling the same story as the other. He is laughing at our beards and making us eat dirt. I'll hear no more."

"But, your worship----"

"I'll hear no more!" shouted the judge. "I find him guilty on all points."

"But my flute----"

"Your flute is forfeited."

The orphan uttered a cry of despair.

"My flute that cost me twenty-five pounds only a week since," he wailed dolefully.

The bashaw pricked up his ears at these words.

A man who could afford to give twenty-five pounds for a flute must be possessed of property.

The scales of justice quivered whilst he whispered to his vizier--

"This Frank is rich, is he not?"

"Heaven forbid that I should venture to dispute your highness's opinion. Most of his countrymen are so," the subordinate replied.

"Let us see."

Looking towards the agitated grocer, the bashaw said, in a modified tone--

"The law pronounces you guilty. Still, in our mercy and clemency, we incline to show you favour. Your flute, for which it seems you paid twenty-five pounds, is forfeited; but, for another twenty-five you may redeem it."

The orphan was dreadfully indignant.

"What!" he cried, "pay twice over for what's my own property? I won't pay another farthing, you pot-bellied old humbug."

"What does he say?" asked the bashaw of his vizier; "does he consent?"

The interpreter turned slightly green with dismay as he stammered in reply--

"He expresses himself utterly overpowered by the--the--splendour of your highness's magnificent condescension; but--a--a--at the same time he is not at the present moment able to a--avail himself of it."

"You mean to say he has no sufficient funds--is that it?"

"Yes, your highness."

The disappointed bashaw uttered an angry grunt, and looking savagely at the prisoner, said to him--

"Since you can't pay, you must----"

"I can pay," shouted the orphan, in a furiously indignant tone; "but I won't."

The bashaw grinned at him like a fiend, and demanding the flute to be handed to him, held it up before the eyes of the whole court.

"Be witness all," he exclaimed, "that yonder obstinate Frank despises our clemency, and refuses to redeem this flute, his property."

"That flute is not his property, it is mine," cried a voice from the crowd.

At the same moment a portly Turk, in a red fez cap, pressed forward.

He was recognised at once as Kallum Beg, a Turk of distinction, but who at times had to be treated as a madman.

"That flute is mine, O noble bashaw!" he repeated.

The judge winked and blinked, and seemed greatly perplexed at this unexpected declaration.

"Yours?" he echoed, at length.

"Yes, your highness. I was robbed of it a week since."

"And that lying son of Shitan told us he bought it for twenty-five pounds."

"So I did," protested the orphan.

"Silence!" roared the bashaw, "you have made us eat nothing but dirt. You know you stole it."

Then turning to the rightful owner of the instrument, he said to him--

"Kallum Beg, the flute is yours. Still as you contradicted me in the open court, declaring it to be your property, when I had declared it to be the property of another, you are fined fifty sequins."

The Turk grunted, and shrugged his shoulders, for each of which offences he was instantly fined an additional fifty sequins, making a hundred and fifty. There being no appeal, the fine was paid and Kallum Beg received his flute.

"And now," continued the bashaw, "let that unbelieving dog receive twenty strokes of the bastinado, on the soles of his feet."

In an instant the orphan was jerked off his legs, and placed flat on the ground.

The executioner stepped forward, and having removed his slippers, flourished his cane.

"Begin," cried the judge.

Swish fell the bamboo upon the orphan's naked feet.

The pain was so exquisite that the victim shrieked "Murder!" at the top of his voice.

The bashaw grinned from ear to ear.

"Perhaps the prisoner would rather pay than suffer," he said, after a moment.

"Yes, yes, I would," cried Mr. Figgins, desperately; "a great deal rather. How much?"

"Ten sequins a stroke. A hundred and ninety sequins in all."

"I'll pay the sum. Oh, why did I ever leave delightful London?" said the grocer.

"Raise him!" said the bashaw.

The victim was lifted up, and a messenger dispatched with a note to young Jack Harkaway to forward the orphan's cash-box.

In a short time the man returned, and the box was at once handed over to the bashaw, who having received the key, helped himself at once to double the sum he had demanded.

"Now I suppose I'm at liberty," said Mr. Figgins, glancing, wistfully at his cash box.

"Not just yet," returned the grasping judge, who having the money in his possession, was resolved to appropriate as much as possible.

"I'm inclined to think that you have been unjustly accused. I therefore permit you as a particular favour to avenge yourself upon Bosja. You must fight with him, kill him if you can, and I shall not hold you responsible."

The orphan looked unutterable things at this permission, whilst Bosja, who was a great coward at heart, turned all manner of colours.

"Your mightiness----" he began.

But the bashaw cut him short.

"You are fined fifty sequins for speaking when you are not spoken to," he cried; "treasurer, collect the money."

But Bosja had not a single coin left.

"Then he must go to prison," said the judge, sternly; "but not till after he has fought with the man he has falsely accused."

"I've no wish to fight. I want to go home," exclaimed Mr. Figgins.

"You're fined another fifty sequins," remarked the bashaw, blandly; "for not wishing to fight when I say you are to fight."

Whilst the judge dipped once more into the cash-box, the executioner went for weapons, and shortly reappeared with a couple of enormous scimitars, which he placed in the hands of the combatants.

A dead silence fell upon the eager crowd, who longed for the fight to commence.

"Are you ready?" demanded the bashaw.

"N-n-n-no, I'm not," faltered the orphan, whose ferocity had entirely disappeared with the loss of his flute; "I'm not a fighting man, and I don't like fighting with swords--I might get hurt. I would rather forgive Mr. Bosja than kill him."

His opponent evinced his satisfaction at this humane proposal by a ghastly smile.

But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with terror, and he said nothing.

But the bashaw was not to be thwarted in this manner.

"It is my will that you fight," he said, in a determined tone; "and fight you must, or each find a substitute."

The combatants strained their eyes eagerly amongst the crowd.

But no one volunteered to take their places.

Suddenly Mr. Figgins caught sight of a black figure that was pantomiming to him very eagerly in the distance.

A flash of joy rushed across his troubled spirit.

It was Tinker.

He could judge by his actions he was ready to take his place, and therefore he exclaimed aloud--

"I've found a substitute."

"Where?" demanded the bashaw, looking intensely disappointed.

"Here de dustibute," shouted Tinker, in reply; "make way, you whitey-brown Turkies, an' let de rale colour come forrards."

As he spoke, he elbowed his way through the crowd till he reached the space in front of the seat of justice.

Here he shook hands with Mr. Figgins, and nodded as familiarly to the bashaw as though he had been a particular friend of his.

"What son of Jehanum is that?" growled the bashaw, scowling fiercely at Tinker.

"He is my substitute," exclaimed the grocer.

"Is he? And do you know what you must pay to be allowed to make use of him?" asked the bashaw.

"No, you old thief, I don't," said Figgins, softly; then aloud--"how much?"

"Two hundred sequins," said the judge.

"Oh, certainly," assented the orphan; "no doubt you intend to empty my box before you let me go."

This restored the complacency of the bashaw, who, having by this last demand used up all the grocer's cash, finished by taking possession of his cash-box to carry it away in.

Having locked it safely up, he cried--

"I wish to be amused. Let the fight commence at once."

Tinker received a scimitar from the hands of Mr. Figgins, and flourished it gaily round his head.

Bosja, who could not afford to pay for a substitute, made a great effort to pull himself together for the strife, but he looked very white, and his teeth chattered audibly.

"Now, slaves, begin," exclaimed the judge.

Tinker gave a semi-savage yell, just to encourage his opponent, and then, with a most ferocious grin on his dark face, he sprang forward.

Bosja, scared out of his wits, struck wildly at random.

His scimitar came in contact with nothing but air, whilst Tinker gave him a slight prod with his sabre's point in the region of his baggy breeches.

Bosja felt it, and believing himself seriously wounded, uttered a doleful howl.

The crowd applauded.

Tinker hopped round him as nimbly as a tomtit or a jackdaw, and presently gave him another little taste of his steel.

Bosja, fully impressed with the idea that he was bleeding to death, began to grow desperate.

Grasping his scimitar more firmly, he rushed in at his sable antagonist, but Tinker, by a skilful manoeuvre, locked his hilt in that of his foe's weapon, and wrested it from his hand, following up his advantage with a smart tap on Bosja's skull with the flat of his blade.

This was a settler for the Turk, who, under the pleasing conviction that his brains were knocked out, uttered a piteous groan, and fell fainting on the ground.

The spectators did not appear to relish the defeat of their countryman, and loud murmurs of discontent burst forth, in the midst of which the bashaw rose.

"Stop the fight, and arrest the murderer," he cried.

Several of the soldiers and a few of the spectators advanced with alacrity to obey the order, but Tinker suddenly delivered one of his startling war whoops and flourished a glittering scimitar in each of his hands.

Everyone stopped.

It seemed prudent to do so, for the negro grinned and gnashed his teeth like a dark demoniac, as he sharpened his weapons one upon the other, preparatory to some deadly work of destruction.

Having performed this operation, he cried--

"Now de amputashun goin' to begin!" and uttering another terrible yell, dashed in amongst the guards.

The soldiers, astonished and appalled, dropped their weapons and fled from the court, calling upon the Prophet to save them from the wild fiend.

Having got rid of the soldiers, Tinker tripped up Kallum Beg, and wresting his flute from his hand, helped that worthy individual to creep out on his hands and knees by the wholesome stimulant of the points of his two scimitars.

Next he sprang amongst the spectators, shrieking and flourishing his weapons.

What with the clash of the steel and the hideous outcry he made, the Moslem crowd were beside themselves with terror.

Struggling, shouting, and declaring that the devil himself was let loose, among them, they fought, and scratched, and pulled off turbans, and tumbled over each other till they reached the door.

The court was cleared.

All but the bashaw and his principal ministers, who still congregated round the judgment seat, blue with terror.

"Seize him! seize the imp of Jehanum!"

"Allah preserve me!" cried the potentate, who was holding on tenaciously to the vizier.

But the vizier made no attempt to obey his superior.

He was clinging to another vizier, imploring Allah to preserve him.

Up sprang Tinker, yelling and waving his sword.

"'Ssassinashun! spifl'cashun! string'lashun to de 'ole lot ob yah!" he shouted.

The officials did not wait to be operated upon.

"Look after the cash-box," gasped the bashaw, as he waddled down the steps.

The rest followed, forgetting everything but their own personal safety.

The cash box was left behind.

Tinker pounced upon it.

"'Ooray!" he shouted, triumphantly; "him got de flute and de cash-box as well. Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Quick as lightning he rushed to the door.

At the entrance he encountered the bashaw, who had discovered his loss.

"Son of perdition, give me my property," he cried.

Tinker gave it him immediately--on his head.

The effect was stunning.

Down went the "Cream of Justice" and the "Flower of wisdom" senseless to the ground.

Tinker sprang over him, and hurried away with the swiftness of a deer.

The orphan had long since taken his flight.

But, to his great joy, he received from the brave negro not only his coin, but what he prized more--his flute.