CHAPTER LXV.
HOW THE ORPHAN BECAME POSSESSED OF A FLUTE.
But we must leave Mole for a time, and return to our friends on theirtravels.
When next they landed at a Turkish town, Mr. Figgins went to adifferent hotel to that patronised by young Jack, whose practicaljoking 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 unusuallythoughtful.
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 theorphan.
"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 ofcuriosity."
"Of interest you mean, Mr. Figgins," returned Jack, winking at HarryGirdwood; "you are an Englishman, you know, and Englishmen are alwaysvery interesting to foreigners."
"I can't say as to that," the orphan replied; "I only know I can't showmy 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 andfollow 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 thenthe dogs bark at me in a very distressing manner."
"It's the only way they have of bidding you welcome," remarked HarryGirdwood.
"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 constantlyafraid they will do," wailed the poor orphan.
There was a slight pause, during which young Jack and his comradegrinned 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 wellin your splendid new tourist suit, cross-barred all over in fourcolours, I fancy it would be better if you dressed as a Turk duringyour stay here."
"A Turk, Jack?"
"Yes; now, if you were to have your head shaved, and dress yourselflike a Turk," said Jack, "all this wonderment would cease, and youwould 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?" hegasped. "You surely don't mean that?"
"I do, indeed," replied Jack, seriously.
"What? Wear baggy breeches, and an enormous turban, and slippers turnedup 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 mustdo as Turkey does.'"
Mr. Figgins reflected for a moment.
"And you really think if I were to go in, for a regular Turkishfit-out, I should be allowed to enjoy my walks in peace?" he asked, atlength.
"Decidedly," answered his counsellors, with the utmost gravity.
"Then I'll take your advice, and be a Turk until further notice," saidthe 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 aboutyour complexion."
"Very well, then, that's settled; I'll turn Turk at once. But must Ihave my head shaved?"
"That's important," said Jack.
Having made up his mind on that point, the orphan at once put on hishat, and taking a sip of brandy to compose his nerves, he salliedforth, directing his steps to the nearest barber's.
On his way thither he attracted the usual amount of attention, and whenhe reached the barber's shop, he found himself accompanied by a selectcrowd of deriding Turks, and a dozen or so of yelping curs, shoutingand 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 ofhis 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 intoa chair with a towel under his chin.
The next moment his head, under the energetic manipulation of theoperator, was a creamy mass of lather.
"Be sure and don't cut my head off," murmured the orphan, as he watchedthe 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 assmooth and destitute of hair as a bladder of lard.
Then followed the process of shampooing, which was very soothing to theorphan's feelings.
At length, the operation being completed, the barber bade the orphanput on his hat--which from the loss of his hair went over his eyes andrested on his nose--and left the shop.
His friends--the mob and the dogs--had waited for him outside verypatiently.
If his appearance had been interesting before, their interest was nowgreatly increased.
A loud shout welcomed him, and he proceeded along the street underdifficulties, 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 byinstinct what he wanted.
"Closhe, shignor, closhe," he cried in broken English. "Shtep in andtake your choice."
Before the bewildered orphan knew where he was, he found himself in theinterior 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 Jewpressed upon him.
In a short time his costume was complete, consisting of a pair of amplewhite trousers, and a blue shirt, surmounted by a crimson vest, securedat the waist by a purple sash, and on his feet a pair of yellowslippers 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 enormousdimensions of green and yellow stripe, which he placed upon the head ofhis customer.
"Shall I do? Do I look like a native Turk?" asked the latter, after hehad put on his things.
"Do?" echoed the Jew, exultingly. "If it ish true dat de closhe makesde man, you vill do excellent vell, and de people vill not now runafter you."
Mr. Figgins having settled his account with the Hebrew clothier, andpaid just three times as much as he ought to have done, went out againwith considerable confidence, looking as gaudy in his mixture of brightcolours 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 costumeattracted 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 f
illed withadmiration.
"Impostor, unbelieving dog!" shouted the enraged populace. "He is anaccursed 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 wasthreatening 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 astake through his body, would have easily distanced them.
But unfortunately, his green and yellow striped turban, dislodged fromits position, fell--as his hat had previously done--over his eyes, andalmost 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 theground.
The Turk in pursuit caught up this end, and grasping it firmly, broughtall his weight to bear upon the fugitive.
Suddenly the hapless Figgins began to feel strong symptoms ofstrangulation.
The next moment, a sharp jerk from the burly Turk pulled him to theground.
But this saved him.
No sooner was he prostrate on his back than the turban slipped from hishead, and he was free.
Springing to his feet, he darted off at a speed which no human grocercould 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 hislife.
He found himself in a retired spot, and no one being near, he sat downto reflect and recover his breath.
"What a country this is," he thought; "pleasant enough, though, as faras the climate goes; but the people in it are awful! What a lot ofbloodthirsty, bilious-looking wretches, to be sure; ready to consign totorture and death a poor innocent, unprotected orphan because hehappens to be of a different colour from themselves!"
So perturbed were the thoughts of Mr. Figgins that he was obliged tosmoke 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 sureto meet some of the rabble, and with them and the dogs I shall be tornto pieces. What will become of me--wretched orphan that I am! Whatshall I do?"
Hardly had he uttered these distressful exclamations when a prolongednote of melody caught his ear.
"Hark!" he said to himself, "there is music. 'Music hath charms tosoothe the savage breast,' says the poet, and it seems to have asoothing 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 feltcomforted.
"It's a flute; it must be a flute," he murmured to himself, as helistened. "I always liked the flute. It's so soft and melancholy."
The grocer had a faint recollection of his boyhood's days, when he hadbeen a tolerably efficient performer on a penny whistle.
Just at this moment the mournful note he heard recalled the pastvividly.
So vividly, that Mr. Figgins, in the depths of his loneliness, fixedhis 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 theorphan's eyes.
And no wonder, for of all the doleful too-tooings ever uttered by windinstrument, 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 verybeau-u-u-tiful. I wish I had a flute."
He got up and looked round, and found himself outside an enclosure ofthick trees.
It was evidently within this enclosure the flute player was located.
As the reader knows, there was nothing bold or daring about Mark AntonyFiggins.
But now the flute seemed to have inspired him with a kind ofsupernatural recklessness.
"I'd give almost any thing for that flute," he murmured to himself. "Ifeel that I should like to play the flute. I wonder who it is playingit, and whether he'd sell it?"
The unseen performer, at this juncture, burst forth into such apowerfully shrill cadence that the orphan was quite thrilled withdelight.
"A railway whistle's a fool to it!" he cried, as he clapped his handsin ecstasy. "Bravo, bravo! Encore!"
Having shouted his applause till he was hoarse, he walked along by theside 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 hissolo, had come to see who the delinquent was that had disturbed him.
The enthusiastic Figgins had caught sight of the flute, and that wassufficient.
Forgetting his usual nervous timidity, he rushed forward.
"My dear sir," he exclaimed, "it was exquisite--delicious! Pray obligeme with another tune--or, if you have no objection, let me attemptone."
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, butthey--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 sweettones so soothed my spirits--which are at this moment extremelylow--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, thatyou will allow me to attempt one myself, and thirdly, that you willsell me the instrument you hold in your hand.'"
The Turk glared for a moment fiercely at the proposer of these modestrequests, and then politely wishing the graves of his departedrelatives might be perpetually defiled, he replied curtly--
"First, I am not going to play any more to-night; next, I will see youin Jehanum[1] before I allow you to play; and thirdly, I won't sell myflute."
[1] The abode of lost spirits.
With these words, he stepped back into the garden and slammed the gatein Mr. Figgins' face.
"I shall never get over this," Figgins murmured to himself, gloomily;"that flute would have cheered my solitary hours, and that ruthlessTurk refuses to part with it. Now, indeed, I feel my peace of mind isgone forever."
His grief at this juncture became so overpowering, that he leantagainst the door, and in his despair hammered it with his head.
Suddenly the door burst open, and the distressed orphan, in all hisbrilliant 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, ashe lay on his back, feeling as though he had been transformed into ahuman pincus
hion.
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 vigorousjerk hoisted the prostrate grocer out of his thorny bed, tingling allover 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 heardon 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 andmade 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 aflute, my boyhood's favourite instrument."
"Gorra!" muttered Bogey; "it 'nuff to gib a fellar de mullingrubs alldown him back and up him belly."
He looked towards Mr. Figgins, and seeing him standing with his handsclasped 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 ofpeace," murmured the orphan, in a deep, absorbed whisper. "I must havethat flute."
Bogey felt a little anxious.
"Me t'ink Massa Figgins getting lilly soft in him nut; him losing himhair turn him mad," he said to himself.
"I must have that flute," repeated the grocer, in the same abstractedtone 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 hisown account.
So, after an instant, he said quietly--
"Good flute worth more dan ten pounds; rale good blower like dat worthtwenty 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 melancholymanner, and guided by the sound, Bogey crept forward till he came insight of the performer, who was seated in a snug nook in his gardenplaying 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 theflautist, he, in the midst of the too-too-tooing, uttered an unearthlygroan.
"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, butseeing 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 teethfully 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 reallyhalf an idiot, and was just then away from his keepers, let fall hisinstrument from his trembling fingers, and starting up, waddled awayfrom the spot as though the furies were after him, while the specialmessenger 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 theprecious instrument in his hand.
"The flute, the flute!" he cried, "the soother of sorrow, the orphan'scomforter. Let me clutch you in my grasp. Oh, it brings back myboyhood'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 deprice, 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'llpay you the moment we get home, and five pounds over for interest. Youknow 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 hearand send a dog arter de speshal messenger of de Prophet."
Mr. Figgins pledged himself not to blow a note till they were a milefrom the spot at least, and on the strength of this promise, Bogey gavehim up the instrument.
But no sooner did the excited orphan find it in his possession than heforgot all his promises, and putting the flute to his lips, he at oncecommenced "The Girl I Left Behind Me," in the most brilliant manner--sobrilliant indeed that it reached the ears of the owner inside, and, asBogey had shrewdly suspected would be the case, the latter began tohave some slight suspicions that he had been done out of his flute byan impostor.
Very soon his voice was heard calling his dogs, and almost immediatelyloud barkings were heard.
"Run, run, Massa Figgins, or de dogs tear yah to pieces," shoutedBogey.
"They may tear me limb from limb," returned the orphan "but they shan'trob 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 gavechase to the musical Figgins, urged on by their mad master, who wasfollowing them.
Bogey waited for him at the gate.
As he came forth puffing, grunting, and blowing, the negro put out hisfoot, 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 tothe fat hind-quarters of the Turk, who was glad to scramble in at hisgate on all fours, and shut it to keep out the "special messenger" andhis cane.
When Bogey came up with Mr. Figgins, he found that usually timidpersonage with his back against a tree, doing battle with his caninefoes, who were making sad havoc with his Moslem garments.
"Bravo, Massa Figgins," cried Bogey, as he rushed in among the yelpingpack, "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 betweentheir legs, slunk howling away, whilst the triumphant orphanaccompanied 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 sethimself steadily to practise, to the gr
eat horror of all in the house.
* * * *
A week passed. Then the following conversation took place between youngJack 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'llblow himself inside his flute if he goes on at this rate. I consider itcomes under the head of a nuisance."
"Most decidedly," said Jack, "and like other nuisances, must be put astop to."
"All right: let's send for him at once."
Bogey was summoned and dispatched with a polite message from youngJack, that he would be glad to speak to him.
On receiving the message, he repaired at once to the room where Jackand Harry Girdwood were located, preparing another practical joke forthe benefit of the orphan.
Mr. Figgins took his flute with him, and too-tooed all the way till hereached the door of Jack's room.
For Jack and Harry, it should be mentioned, had followed the orphan tohis 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 wishfor; 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 myflute? 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 andsoothing to the spirits?"
"We have found them quite the reverse," Jack assured him; "in fact, ifyou don't put away your flute, you'll drive us both mad, and then Iwouldn'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 drivinganyone mad," he exclaimed at length, "is past belief."
"You may call it exquisite music, but we call it an awful row," Jackreplied, candidly, "therefore have the goodness to shut up."
The orphan drew himself up and clutched his flute in a kind ofconvulsive 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 abalm for all my woes, and I intend to play it incessantly for the restof 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 ofhis lonely condition; "I shall die breathing forth some mournfulmelody, and my flute will----"
"You can leave that to us as a legacy, and we'll put it under a glasscase," 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 ourdeparture together."
With these words he left the room, and very shortly afterwards quittedthe house.
* * * *
Mr. Figgins being determined to keep apart from the Harkaway party,gave up the rooms he had taken, and after some search found anotherlodging 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 ardourthan 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 inthe walls and cracks in the floor, and nibbled the orphan in variousparts of his anatomy till he felt as if the surface of his skin was onelarge 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 willsoothe 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 housewere congratulating themselves on the cessation of the infliction, whensuddenly the instrumental torture commenced again.
"Too-too, too-tum-too, tooty-tum, tooty-tum, too-tum-too," went theflute, in a more shrill and vigorous manner than ever, whilst a selectparty of dogs, attracted by the melody, assembled under the window andhowled in concert.
In the chamber next to that occupied by the infatuated Figgins lodged aTurk, Bosja by name.
Bosja, in the first place, had no taste for music, and particularlydetested the sound of a flute.
Secondly, he was suffering from an excruciating toothache, and theincessant too-tum, too-tum, tooty-tum-too--with the additional music ofthe 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 thesound, but in vain.
"Oh, oh! Allah be merciful to me!" he groaned, as the irritated nervegave him an extra twinge.
"Too-too, too-tum-too, too-tum, too-tum, tooty-tum-too," from theorphan's flute answered him.
"Allah confound the wretch with his tooty-tum-too!" growled thedistracted 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 topour forth melodious squeakings to his own entire satisfaction.
At length the patience of Bosja was utterly exhausted, and he summonedthe 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; "onlythat he is a Frankish gentleman, who dresses sometimes as a Turk, andhas lately come to lodge here."
"He is a dog, and the son of a dog! May his flute choke him, and hisfather's grave be defiled!" growled the irascible Turk, "tell him toleave 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 meto 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 allnight."
The landlady, having delivered her message, went downstairs.
Mr. Figgins still continued to blow away and the agonized Bosja tomutter curses not loud, but deep, upon his head and his instrument.
But patience has its limits, and Bosja, never remarkable for thatvirtue, having sworn all the oaths he knew twice over, at last sprangfrom 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?" inquiredthe orphan, placidly pausing for an instant.
"You vile son of
perdition, stop that accursed noise!" shouted theTurk.
"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. Youwill like the beautiful flute in time."
"But I can't sleep with that infernal tooty-too in any ears, and I'vegot the toothache."
"Have it out. You'll feel better."
This cool irony on the part of Mr. Figgins was like oil poured upon thefierce temper of the irascible Bosja, and he shouted loudly--
"If I hear any more of that diabolical 'tootum-too,' I swear by AllahI'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 hadseized his scimitar, and rushed like a bull at the partition.
The partition was thin, the Turk was burly and thick, and he plungedthrough head first into the orphan's apartment, to the no littlesurprise and dismay of the latter.
It was quite a picture.
Bosja waved his weapon over his head; Mark Antony Figgins hopped uponthe bed and wrapped himself tightly round in the clothes, clutching hisflute 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 yourtooth 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 swoopeddown upon the heap, and dragged them up in his grasp, the orphanincluded.
"Now I have you," he cried, as he seized the obnoxious flute.
"Give me my instrument, infidel," shrieked the orphan, as he threw offthe blanket, and clung to the flute with desperation.
At the same moment, he recognised the green and yellow-striped turbanon the head of the Turk.
It was Bosja into whose hands it had fallen, when Mr. Figgins wasescaping from the mob.
"That is my turban," he cried, as with one hand he dragged it from hisenemy's head, with dauntless vehemence, and bringing his flute downwith a smart crack on the Turk's bald pate.
The Turk, who was much more of a bully than a hero, was quiteconfounded 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, downthe stairs, with the upper joint of the instrument in his hand.
The landlady, who thought the house was falling, came hurrying to seewhat had happened, and found the Turk lying in a heap at the bottom ofthe 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 thestreet door.
On opening it, a body of Turkish soldiers appeared drawn up in front ofit.
"What is the cause of this disturbance?" inquired the leader of thetroop.
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, andthrown downstairs by a rascally dog of a Giaour, who lodged in a roomnext to him.
This was quite sufficient to arouse the indignation of the officer,and, with three of his troop, that functionary ascended to seize thedelinquent.
But, on reaching the room, it was discovered to be empty.
"The Frankish hound laughs at our beards," said the officer. "He hasescaped by the window."
And such had been the intention of Mark Antony Figgins.
But not being accustomed to such perilous descents, he had foundhimself baffled in his flight, and was now perched on a ledge, half waybetween the window and the ground, unable either to proceed or toreturn.
He was soon espied by the soldiers, and a shout announced hisdetection.
A ladder was quickly procured, and the luckless orphan very shortlyfound 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, andhanded it to the officer.
The orphan made a snatch at it, but received only a box on the ear fromthe officer.
The other half of his cherished instrument was wrested from him, and hemarched off to the lock-up until the case could be tried on the morrowbefore the bashaw.
Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks Page 7
