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Title: Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks
       Book Number Fifteen in the Jack Harkaway Series

Author: Bracebridge Hemyng

Release Date: January 9, 2007 [EBook #20320]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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  [Illustration: "'HEAVEN ABOVE!' EJACULATED JACK; 'WHY IT'S MR. MOLE.'"

  JACK HARKAWAY AND HIS BOY TINKER. VOL. II.--_Frontispiece_]



                           JACK HARKAWAY'S
                      BOY TINKER AMONG THE TURKS

                       BEING THE CONCLUSION OF
      THE "ADVENTURES OF YOUNG JACK HARKAWAY AND HIS BOY TINKER"


                                  BY
                          BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG


                          BOOK NUMBER FIFTEEN

                               CHICAGO
                       M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY




                      Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker
                           AMONG THE TURKS.




JACK GETS INTO HOT WATER--A MORAL LESSON, AND HOW HE PROFITED BY
IT--ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.


The matter was not ended here, however.

When they got on board, there was a very serious reception awaiting
them.

Their project had been discovered and betrayed to the skipper by some
officious noodle, and Captain Willis was not a little alarmed.

The consequences might be very serious.

So the captain had Jack and Harry Girdwood up, and gave them a word or
two of a sort.

"We wish to preserve the most friendly relations with the people here,
Mr. Harkaway," said he, severely; "and this sort of adventure is not
calculated to achieve our object."

Jack did not attempt to deny what had occurred.

"We have done no harm," he said; "we were simply cruising about when we
saw murder done. We arrived too late to prevent it, but Tinker was
pleased to take it upon himself to avenge the murdered woman, for a
woman it was, as we could tell from her shrieks as the sack went under
and stifled them for ever."

The captain was somewhat startled at this.

"Is this true?"

"I would have you know, captain, that I am not in the habit of saying
what is not true."

The captain bowed stiffly at young Jack's rebuke.

"I don't wish to imply anything else," he said; "but before you get too
high up in the stirrups, young gentleman, remember that I command here.
Remember that in your own thirst for excitement, you act in a way
likely to compromise me as well as everybody on board. You are not
wanting in a proper appreciation of right and wrong. Before you add
anything worse to the present discussion, reflect. The injured air
which you are pleased to assume is out of place. I leave you to your
own reflections, young gentleman."

And so saying, the captain turned away and left him.

Jack's first impulse was to walk after the captain, and fire a parting
shot.

But Harry Girdwood's hand arrested him.

"Don't be foolish, Jack," said he.

"Let go, I----"

"Don't be foolish, I say, Jack," persisted Harry Girdwood. "Do you know
what you are saying?"

"Are you siding against me?" exclaimed Jack.

"In a general sense I am not against you, but I can't approve of your
replies. You had no right to retort, and I shouldn't be a true pal,
Jack, if I spoke to your face against my convictions."

Jack sulked for a little time.

And then he did as the captain had advised.

He reflected.

He was very soon led back to the correct train of thought, and being a
lad of high moral courage, as well as physically brave, he was not
afraid to acknowledge when he was in the wrong.

Harry Girdwood walked a little way off.

Young Jack--dare-devil Jack--coloured up as he walked to Harry and held
out his hand.

"Tip us your fin, messmate," he said, with forced gaiety. "You are
right, I was wrong, of course."

He turned off.

"Where are you going?" demanded Harry.

"To the captain."

"What for?"

"To apologise for being insolent."

Off he went.

"Captain Willis."

"Do you want me, Mr. Harkaway?" asked the captain.

"The chief mate was standing by, and Jack did not feel that he had so
far offended as to have to expiate his fault in public.

"When you are disengaged, Captain Willis, I would beg the favour of
half a word with you."

"Is it urgent, Mr. Harkaway?" he asked.

"I have been refractory, Captain Willis."

A faint smile stole over the captain's face in spite of his endeavour
to repress it.

"I will see you below presently," he said to the mate. "Come down to me
in a quarter of an hour or so."

"Yes, sir," said the mate.

"Now, Mr. Harkaway, I'm at your service," said Captain Willis, walking
forward.

Jack grew rather red in the face at this.

Then he made a plunge, and blurted it all out.

"I have been an idiot, Captain Willis, and I want you to know that I
thoroughly appreciate your fairness and high sense of justice."

"Now you are flattering me, Mr. Harkaway," said the captain.

"Captain Willis," said impetuous Jack, "if you call me Mr. Harkaway, I
shall think that you are stiff-backed and bear malice."

"What a wild fellow you are," said the captain. "Why, what on earth
shall I call you?"

"Jack, sir," returned our hero. "John on Sunday and holidays, if you
prefer it, just as a proof that you don't bear any ill feeling to a
madman, who has the good luck to have a lucid interval, and to
apologise heartily as I do now."

The captain held out his hand.

Jack dropped his into it with a spank, and grasped it warmly.

"Don't say any more on this subject, Mr.--I mean, Jack," said the
captain, smiling, "or you will make me quite uncomfortable."

And so the matter ended.

Jack could not be dull for long together.

He plucked up his old vivacity, and went off to Mr. Figgins' cabin.

"I must go and give the orphan a turn," said he.




CHAPTER LX.

TURKISH CUSTOMS--JACK GIVES THE ORPHAN A NOTION OF WHAT HE MAY
EXPECT--MATRIMONIAL WEAKNESSES--PASHA BLUEBEARD--THE SORT OF A MAN HE
IS--HIS EXCELLENCY'S VISIT--MR. FIGGINS IS SPECIALLY INVITED--HOPES
AND FEARS.


Jack found Mr. Figgins in his cabin, squatting on a cushion
cross-legged.

Tinker and Bogey were attending upon him.

Since their desperate dive into the sea, and the adventure with the
shark, the two darkeys and the orphan had become fast friends.

"Hullo, Mr. Figgins," said Jack, in surprise, "what's going forward
now?"

"Only practising Turkish manners and customs," returned Mr. Figgins,
quite seriously. "I mean to go ashore to-morrow, and make some
acquaintances; I shouldn't like to appear quite strange when I got
ashore. When in Rome----"

"You must do as the Romans do," added young Jack.

"Yes; and when in Turkey," said the orphan, "you must----"

"Do as the Turkeys do," concluded Jack.

"Precisely," added the orphan. "That's it."

"You are practising to smoke the long hookah to begin with."

"Yes--no--it's a chibouk," said Mr. Figgins. "That is all you have to
know, I believe, to make yourself thoroughly well received in Turkish
polite society."

"Every thing," responded Jack, "with a hook--ah."

"I didn't feel very comfortable over it at first," said the orphan,
"but I'm getting on now."

"There's one danger you are exposed to on going ashore."

"What's that?"

"Any gentleman having the slightest pretensions to good looks is nearly
always obliged to get married a few times."

Mr. Figgins stared aghast at this.

"A few times?"

"Yes."

"But I'm an orphan."

"No matter; it's a fact, sir, I assure you," said Jack, gravely.

Mr. Figgins looked exceedingly alarmed.

"If I could believe that there was any thing more in that than your
joking, Mr. Jack, I should be precious uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"Because my experience of matrimony has been any thing but pleasant
already," responded the orphan.

"You have been married, then?" said Jack, in surprise.

"Once."

"Very moderate that, sir," said Jack. "You are a widower, I suppose,
then?"

"I suppose so."

"You are not sure?"

"Not quite."

"Ah, well, then, it won't be so bad for you as it might."

"What won't?"

"Marriage."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jack," exclaimed the orphan; "my experience of
the happy state was any thing but agreeable with one wife. Goodness
knows how long I should survive if I had, as you say, several wives."

"Don't worry yourself, Mr. Figgins," said Jack, "but it is just as well
to be prepared."

"For what?"

"An emergency. You don't know what might happen to you in this
country."

Mr. Figgins looked really very anxious at this.

"I don't well see how they can marry a man."

"That's not the question, Mr. Figgins. You could refuse. It would cost
you your life for a certainty."

The orphan nearly rolled off his cushion.

"What!"

"Fact, I assure you," said Jack, gravely.

"Explain."

"You will be expected to pay a visit of state to the pasha."

"Yes."

"That is the greatest honour on landing for a stranger."

"What is a pasha?"

"The governor of the province, a regular Bung."

"Well."

"Bluebeard was a pasha, you remember."

"No, no," interrupted the orphan, delighted to show his historical
accuracy. "Bluebeard was a bashaw."

"It is the same thing, another way of writing or pronouncing the
identical same dignity or rank. Well, you know that polygamy is the pet
vice of the followers of Islam."

"Oh, it's dreadful, Jack."

"The greater the man, the greater the polygamist. A pasha has as many
wives as he can keep, and more too. The pasha of this province is not
rich for his rank, and for his matrimonial proclivities."

"Lor'!"

"How many wives should you suppose he has?" asked Jack, with an air of
deep gravity.

"Don't know," replied the orphan, quietly.

"Ninety-eight living."

Mr. Figgins jumped up and dropped his chibouk.

"Never."

"A fact," asserted Jack, with gravity.

"Why, the man must be a regular Bluebeard."

"You've hit it, sir," responded Jack; "that's the sort of man he is."

"Well, that is all very well for the Turks and for these old sinners
the pashas, but I am an Englishman."

"This is the way it will most likely be done," continued Jack. "On your
presentation to his excellency the pasha, you are expected to make some
present. The pasha makes a return visit of ceremony, and leaves behind
him some solid evidence of his liberality."

"Well?"

"Well, but the very highest compliment that a pasha can pay you is to
leave you one of his wives. He generally makes it an old stock-keeper,
something that has been a good thirty years or so in the seraglio."

Mr. Figgins took the liveliest interest in this narrative.

He was growing rapidly convinced of the truth of Jack's descriptions of
these singular manners and customs of the country in which they were.

Yet he eyed Jack as one who has a lingering doubt.

"Ahem!" said Mr. Figgins, "I don't think that I shall join you on your
visit ashore in the morning."

"We'll see in the morning," said Jack; "it's a pity to put off your
trip for the sake of such a trifling danger as that of having a wife or
so given to you."

"It's no use," said Mr. Figgins, "my mind is fully made up; I shall not
visit the pasha."

"It will be taken as a grave insult to go ashore without paying your
respects to his excellency."

"I can't help that," returned the orphan, resolutely; "I won't visit
him."

"Mr. Figgins," said Jack, in a voice of deep solemnity, "these Turks
are cruel, vindictive, and revengeful. The last Englishman who refused
was, by order of the pasha, skinned alive, placed on the sunny side of
a wall, and blown to death by flies."

"Surely the Turks are not such barbarians," said Mr. Figgins.

"You'll find they are. They'd think no more of polishing you off than
of killing a fly."

If that rascal Jack intended to make poor Mr. Figgins uneasy, he
certainly succeeded very well.

Mr. Figgins looked supremely miserable.

"Good night, Mr. Figgins. Think it over."

"I tell you I----"

"Never mind, don't decide too rashly. Pleasant dreams."

"Pleasant dreams," said the orphan. "I shall have the nightmare."

The orphan's pillow was haunted that night by visions of a terrible
nature.

He fancied himself in the presence of a turbaned Turk, a powerful
pasha, who was sitting cross-legged on an ottoman, smoking a pipe, of
endless length, and holding in his hand a drawn sword--a scimitar that
looked ready to chop his head off.

Beside this terrible Turk stood five ladies, in baggy trousers, and
long veils.

No words were spoken, but instinctively the orphan knew that he had to
decide between the scimitar and the quintet of wives--wall-flowers of
the pasha's harem.

Silently, in mute horror, the orphan was about to submit to the least
of the two evils, and choose a wife.

Then he awoke suddenly.

What an immense relief it was to find it only a dream after all.

"I don't quite believe that young Harkaway," said the orphan,
dubiously; "he is such a dreadful practical joker. But I won't go on
shore, nevertheless. It's not very interesting to see these savages,
after all; they really are nothing more than savages."

And after a long and tedious time spent in endeavouring to get to sleep
again, he dropped off.

But only to dream again about getting very much married.

                  *          *          *          *

He slept far into the morning, for his dreams had disturbed him much,
and he was tired out.

When he awoke, there was someone knocking at his cabin door.

"Come in."

"It's only me, Mr. Figgins," said a familiar voice.

"Come in, captain."

Captain Deering entered.

"Not up yet, Mr. Figgins?" he said, in surprise. "We've got visitors
aboard already."

"Dear me."

"Distinguished visitors. The pasha and his suite."

"You don't say so?" exclaimed the orphan, sitting up.

"Fact, sir," returned the captain. "It must be ten years since I last
had the honour of an interview with his excellency."

"You know him, then, Captain Deering?"

"Rather. Been here often. Know every inch of the country," said the
captain.

"What sort of a man is the pasha?" said the orphan, thinking of Jack's
statement.

"Oh, a decent fellow enough, unless he's riled," was the reply.

"Do you speak the language?" said the orphan.

"Like a native."

"Is he as much married as they say?" demanded Mr. Figgins.

The captain smiled.

"His excellency has a weakness that way; but," he added, in a warning
voice, "you must not make any allusion to that."

"I won't see him," said Mr. Figgins. "I don't intend to visit him."

"But I have come to fetch you to pay your respects."

"Where?"

"Here, on board, in the state saloon."

"But----"

"Make haste, Mr. Figgins," interrupted Captain Deering. "It is no joke
to make a pasha wait. Look alive. I'll come and fetch you in five
minutes. Up you get."

And then Captain Deering departed.

Mr. Figgins was sorely perplexed now.

But he arose and began to dress himself as quickly as possible.

"After all," he said to himself, "it is just as well. I should
certainly like to see the pasha, and this is a bit of luck, for there's
no danger here at any rate, if what that young Harkaway said was true."

He went to the cabin door and shouted out for Tinker.

"Tinker!"

"He's engaged," answered Captain Deering, who was close by.

"I want him."

"He's away, attending his excellency in the saloon," returned Captain
Deering.

"Bogey then."

"Bogey's there too."

"Never mind."

"Are you nearly ready?"

"Yes"

"Look sharp. I wouldn't have his excellency put out of temper for the
world; it would be sure to result in the bowstringing of a few of his
poor devils of slaves when he got ashore again, and you wouldn't care
to have that on your conscience."

Mr. Figgins very hurriedly completed his toilet.

"What a fiend this wretched old bigamist must be," he said to himself.
"I'm precious glad that young Harkaway warned me, after all. I might
have got into some trouble if I had gone ashore without knowing this."

"Stop," said the captain. "Have you any thing to take his excellency as
a present?"

This made the orphan feel somewhat nervous.

It tended to confirm what young Jack had said.

"It is, then, the custom to make presents?" he said.

"Yes."

"What shall I give?"

"Any thing. That's a very nice watch you wear."

"Must I give that?"

"Yes. His excellency is sure to present you with a much richer
one--that's Turkish etiquette."

This again corroborated Jack's words.

Yet it was a far more pleasant way of putting it than Jack had thought
fit to do.

Mr. Figgins only objected to a present of wives.

Any thing rich in the way of jewellery was quite another matter.

"On entering the presence, you have only to prostrate yourself three
times; the third time you work it so that you just touch his
excellency's toe with your lips."

"I hope his excellency's boots will be clean."

"His excellency would not insult you by letting you kiss his boot. No
boot or stocking does he wear."

Mr. Figgins made an awfully wry face at this.

"Ugh! I don't like the idea of kissing a naked toe."

"You'll soon get used to it," said the captain, cheerfully, "when
you've kissed as many pashas' toes as I have. Hold your tongue--here we
are."

He pushed open the saloon door and ushered Mr. Figgins into the
presence of his excellency.




CHAPTER LXI.

MORE ABOUT CHIVEY AND HIS MASTER--THE FATAL PIT--IS IT THE END?--ARTFUL
CHIVEY AND THE ARTFULLER NOTARY--DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND--HOW THE TIGER
PREPARED TO SPRING--HERBERT MURRAY IN DANGER.


Before we proceed to describe the orphan's presentation to that arch
polygamist, the Turkish pasha, and the remarkable result of that
interview, we must look around and see if we are not neglecting any of
the characters whose eventful careers we have undertaken to chronicle.

We are losing sight of one at least, who has a very decided claim upon
our attention.

This person is none other than Herbert Murray.

The reader will not have forgotten under what circumstances we parted
company with this unscrupulous son of an unscrupulous father.

Goaded to desperation by his villainous servant, Herbert Murray turned
upon the traitor and hurled him down the gravel pit.

Then the assassin walked away from the scene.

But ere he had got far, his steps were arrested by the sound of a
groan.

A groan that came from the gravel pit.

"Was it my fancy?"

No.

Surely not.

There it was again.

A low moan--a wail of anguish.

Back he went, muttering to himself--

"Not dead?"

He went round nearly to the bottom of the pit, and peered over.

There was Chivey leaning upon his elbow groaning with the severity of
his bruises, and the dreadful shock he had received.

"You've done for me, now," he moaned, as he caught sight of his master.

"No; but I shall," retorted the assassin.

And he took a deliberate aim with the pistol.

"I expected this," said Chivey, faintly; "but remember murder is a
hanging matter."

"I shall escape," retorted Murray, coldly.

"But you can't," said Chivey, with a grin of triumph, even as he
groaned.

There was something in his manner which made Murray uneasy.

"Twenty-four hours after I'm missing," gasped Chivey, "your forgery
will be in the hands of the police; they can get you back for forgery,
and while you're in the dock of the Old Bailey, if not before, to stand
your trial for forgery, they will have a clue to my murder."

His words caused Murray a singular thrill.

"What do you mean by that, traitor?" he demanded.

"Mean? Why, I know you too well to trust you. I tell you I have taken
every possible precaution," retorted Chivey, "so that you are safe only
while I live. I know my man too well not to take every precaution.
Now," he added, sinking back exhausted, "now, my young sweet and
pleasant, fire away."

Murray paused, and concealed his pistol.

Was it true about these precautions?

Chivey was vindictive as he was cunning.

He had shown this in every action.

"Supposing I spare you?" said Murray.

"You can't," retorted the tiger; "I'm done for."

"So much the better."

"So you say now," returned Chivey, his voice growing fainter and
fainter. "Wait and remember my words--I'll be revenged."

He gasped for breath.

Then all was still.

Was he dead?

Murray trembled with fear at the thought.

The words of the revengeful tiger rang in his ear.

And he strode away.

Silent and moody as befits one bearing the brand of Cain.

                  *          *          *          *

Chivey was far from being as badly hurt as he at first appeared.

He had no bones broken, his worst injuries being a few bruises and a
very unpleasant shaking.

But Chivey was artful.

He thought it best to keep quiet until Herbert Murray should be gone.

Chivey struggled up on to his knees.

Then he began to crawl along the sand pit.

Progress was difficult at first.

But he persevered and got along in time.

"If these bruises would only let me think how further to act," he
muttered to himself, as groaning, he crawled back to the town.

"Seņor Velasquez," he said to himself, as a happy thought crossed him.
"Seņor Velasquez is my man for a million."

He paused to think over the ways and means, and a cunning smile
deepened on his face, as he gradually made up his mind.

"The worst of this is that I must have a confederate," muttered the
young schemer.

"No matter, there is only one way out of it, and I must make the best
of it."

Seņor Velasquez was an obscure notary.

Chivey had made a chatting acquaintance with the notary in the town,
the Spaniard speaking English with tolerable proficiency.

"What is the nature of the secret you hold _in terrorem_ over your
master?" demanded the notary, when Chivey at length reached his office.

Chivey smiled.

"I said it was a secret, Mr. Velasquez," he answered.

"But if you seek my advice about that," the notary made reply, "I must
know all the particulars of the case."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"Why?"

"How can I advise if you keep me in the dark?"

Chivey leered at the Spanish notary and grinned.

"Don't you try and come the old soldier over me, please," he said.

"Old soldier?" said Seņor Velasquez, in surprise.

"Yes."

"What is 'old soldier?' What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, sir, the artful."

"Is this English?" exclaimed the notary.

"Rather."

"Well, I confess I do not understand it."

"Then," said Chivey, getting quite cheerful as he warmed into the
matter, "I think your English education has been very seriously
neglected, that's what I think."

"Possibly," said the Spaniard. "I only learnt your tongue as a student,
and am not well grounded in slang."

"More's the pity."

There was a spice of contempt in Chivey's tone which appeared rather to
aggravate Seņor Velasquez.

"You are too clever, Mr. Chivey," said he, "far too clever. Now you
want to keep your secret, and I shall guess that your secret
concerns----"

He paused.

"Who?" asked Chivey.

"The young man whose letters you employed me to intercept."

The tiger looked alarmed.

"I mean the young Seņor Jack Harkaway."

Chivey looked about him rather anxiously.

"Don't be so imprudent, Seņor Velasquez," he said. "You are a precious
dangerous party to have any thing to do with."

"Not I," returned Seņor Velasquez; "I am easily dealt with. But those
who would deal with me must not be too cunning."

"You don't find nothing of that sort about me," said Chivey.

"What is it you require of me?" demanded the notary, getting vexed.

"He's a proud old cove," thought the tiger.

So he drew in his horns and met the notary half way.

"You are just right, Mr. Velasquez," he remarked. "It does concern Jack
Harkaway."

"I knew that."

"Now I want you to give me your promise not to tell what I am going to
say to you, nor to make any use of it without my express permission."

"I promise. Now proceed, for I am pressed for time."

"I will," said the tiger, resolutely.

The notary produced paper and writing materials.

"My master, Mr. Murray, has attempted my life," began Chivey, "and this
is because I am possessed of certain secrets."

"I see."

"He is at the present moment under the idea that he has killed me. Now
what I want is, to make him thoroughly understand that he does not get
out of his difficulty by getting me out of the way, not by any manner
of means at all."

"I see."

"How will you do it?"

"I will go and see him."

Chivey jumped at the idea immediately.

"Yes, sir, that's the sort; there's no letters then to tell tales
against us."

"None."

"Get one from him, though, if you can," said Chivey, eagerly;
"something compromising him yet deeper, like."

"I will do it," said Seņor Velasquez. "And what will you pay for it?
Give it a price."

"Thirty pounds," returned Chivey, in a feverish state of anxiety.

"I'll do it," returned the notary, with great coolness.




CHAPTER LXII.

HOW SEŅOR VELASQUEZ PLAYED A DEEP GAME WITH CHIVEY--DOUBLE DEALING--HERBERT
MURRAY'S CHANCE--"HARKAWAY MUST BE PUT AWAY"--A GUILTY COMPACT--CHIVEY
IN DURANCE VILE--THE SICK ROOM AND THE OPIATE--AN OVERDOSE--THE
NOTARY'S GUARDIAN--THE SPANISH GAROTTE--"TALKING IN YOUR SLEEP IS A
VERY BAD GAME."


Seņor Velasquez was any thing but a fool.

Chivey was not soft, but he was not competent to cope with such a keen
spirit as this Spanish notary.

Seņor Velasquez walked up to the hotel in which Herbert Murray was
staying, and the first person he chanced to meet was Murray himself.

"I wish to have a word with you in private, Seņor Murray," said the
notary.

Murray looked anxiously around him, starting "like a guilty thing upon
a fearful summons."

The bland smile of the Spanish notary reassured him, however.

"What can I do for Seņor Velasquez?" he asked.

"I begged for a few words in private," answered Velasquez.

"Take a seat, Seņor Velasquez," said Herbert Murray, "and now tell me
how I can serve you," after entering his room.

The notary made himself comfortable in his chair.

"I can speak in safety now?" he said.

"Of course."

"No fear of interruption here?"

The notary looked Murray steadily in the eyes as he said--

"I was thinking of your officious servant."

Herbert Murray changed colour as he faltered--

"Of whom?"

"Chivey, I think you call him--your groom, I mean."

"There is no fear from him now," said Murray, with averted eyes; "not
the least in the world."

Seņor Velasquez smiled significantly.

"Your man Chivey," resumed the Spanish notary, "has confided to me a
secret."

"Concerning me?"

"Yes."

"The villain!"

"Now listen to me, Seņor Murray. You have behaved very imprudently
indeed. Your whole secret is with me."

Herbert started.

"With you?"

"Yes."

Herbert Murray glanced anxiously at the door.

The notary followed his eyes with some inward anxiety, yet he did not
betray his uneasiness at all.

"He was speaking the truth for once, then," said Murray. "He had
confided his secrets to someone else."

"Yes."

Herbert Murray walked round the room, and took up his position with his
back to the door.

"Seņor Velasquez," he said, in a low but determined voice, "you have
made an unfortunate admission. If there is a witness, it is only one;
you are that witness, and your life is in danger."

The notary certainly felt uncomfortable, but he was too old a stager to
display it.

Herbert Murray produced a pistol, which he proceeded to examine and to
cock deliberately.

"That would not advance your purpose much, Seņor Murray," he said,
coolly; "the noise would bring all the house trooping into the room."

Murray was quite calm and collected now, and therefore he was open to
reason.

"There is something in that," he said, "so I have a quieter helpmate
here."

He uncocked the pistol and put it in his breast pocket.

Then he whipped out a long Spanish stiletto.

"There are other reasons against using that."

"And they are?"

"Here is one," returned the notary, drawing a long, slender blade from
his sleeve.

Murray was palpably disconcerted at this.

The Spanish notary and the young Englishman stood facing each other in
silence for a considerable time.

The former was the first to break the silence.

"Now, look you here, Seņor Murray," said he, "I am not a child, nor did
I, knowing all I know, come here unprepared for every emergency--aye,
even for violence."

"Go on," said Murray, between his set teeth.

"You have imprudently placed yourself in the hands of an unscrupulous
young man."

"I have."

"And he has proved himself utterly unworthy?"

"Utterly."

"All of that is known to me," said the notary, craftily. "Now you must
pay no heed to this Chivey."

"I will not," returned Herbert Murray, significantly, "though there is
little fear of further molestation from him, seņor."

Young Murray little dreamt of the cause of the notary's peculiar smile.

"Your sole danger, as I take it, Seņor Murray, is from your fellow
countryman, Jack Harkaway."

"Yes."

"Then to him you must direct your attention. Where is he?"

"Gone."

"Where to?"

"Don't know."

"I do then," returned the notary, quietly: "and it is to tell you that
that I am here. I have all the necessary information; you must follow
him."

"Why?"

"To make sure of him," coldly replied the Spaniard.

"How?"

Velasquez spoke not.

But his meaning was just as clear as if he had put it into words.

A vicious dig with his stiletto at the air.

Nothing more.

And so they began to understand each other.

                  *          *          *          *

Seņor Velasquez, the notary, was playing a double game.

From Herbert Murray he carefully kept the knowledge that Chivey still
lived.

And why?

That knowledge would have lessened his hold.

The cunning way in which he let Herbert Murray understand that he knew
all, even to the attempt upon Chivey's life at the gravel pits,
completed the mastery in which he meant to hold the young rascal.

He arranged everything for young Murray.

He discovered from him the destination of the ship in which Jack
Harkaway and his friends had escaped, and he procured him a berth on a
vessel sailing in the same direction.

"Once you get within arm's length of this young Harkaway," he said;
"you must be firm and let your blow be sure."

"I will," returned his pupil.

"Once Harkaway is removed from your path, you may sleep in peace, for
he alone can now punish you for forgery."

"I hope so."

"I know it," said Velasquez.

So well were the notary's plans laid, and so luckily did fortune play
into his hands, that forty-eight hours after his interview with Murray,
he had that young gentleman safely on board a ship outward bound.

Now Herbert Murray had passed but one night after that fearful scene by
the gravel pit, but the remembrance of it haunted his pillow from the
moment he went to bed to the moment he arose unrefreshed and full of
fever.

And yet he was setting out with the intention of securing his future
peace and immunity from peril by the commission of a fresh crime.

The ship was setting sail at a little after daybreak, and it had been
arranged that Seņor Velasquez was to come and see him off.

But much to his surprise, the notary did not put in an appearance.

Eagerly he waited for the ship to start, lest any thing should occur at
the eleventh hour, and he should find himself laid by the heels to
answer for his crimes.

                  *          *          *          *

Chivey was supposed to be hiding.

In reality he was a prisoner in the house of Seņor Velasquez, and he
knew it.

The notary was an old man, and he suffered from sundry ailments which
belong to age--notably to rheumatism.

An acute attack prostrated the old man, and held him down when he was
most anxious to be up and doing.

And the night before Herbert Murray was to set sail, he lay groaning
and moaning with racking pains.

His cries reached Chivey, who lay in the next room, and he came to the
sick man's door to ask if he could be of any assistance.

He peered warily in.

In spite of his groans and anguish, the old notary was insensible under
the influence of an opiate.

Chivey crept in.

On a low table beside the bed was a lamp flickering fearfully, and a
glass containing some medicine.

Beside the glass a phial labelled laudanum.

Something possessed the intruder to empty the contents of the phial
into the glass, and just as he had done so, the sufferer opened his
eyes.

"Who's there?"

"It's me, Seņor Velasquez," said the tiger. "You have been ill----"

"What do you do here?" demanded the notary, sharply.

"You called out. I thought I might be of assistance."

"No, no."

"Then I will go, seņor," said Chivey, "for I am tired."

"Stay, give me my physic before you go."

Chivey handed him the glass.

The sick man gulped it down, and made a wry face.

"How bitter it tastes," he said, with a shudder.

"Good-night, seņor."

"Good-night."

                  *          *          *          *

Chivey did not remain very long absent.

The heavy breathing of the notary soon told him that it was safe to
return to the room.

The business of the morrow so filled the mind of the old Spaniard, that
he was talking of it in his sleep.

"At an hour after daybreak, I tell you, Murray," he muttered. "The
berth is paid for, paid for by my gold. You follow on the track of your
enemy Harkaway, and once you are within reach, give a sharp, sure
stroke, and you will be free from your only enemy, seeing that you have
already taken good care of your traitor servant."

Chivey was amazed, electrified.

Did he hear aright?

"At daybreak!" he exclaimed, aloud.

"Yes; at daybreak," returned the notary in his sleep.

After a pause, the sleeper muttered--

"What say you? If Chivey were not quite dead? What of that? How could
he follow you? He has no funds. The only money he possessed I have now
in my strong box under my bed."

Chivey was staggered.

"Is Murray going to bolt, and leave me in the power of this old
villain, I wonder," he muttered.

He broke off in his speculations, for the notary was babbling something
again.

"'The Mogador,'" muttered the old man, speaking more thickly than
before as the opiate began to make itself felt; "the captain is called
Gonzales. You have only to mention the name of Seņor Velasquez, and he
will treat you well. He knows me."

He muttered a few more words which grew more and more incoherent each
instant.

Then he lay back motionless as a log.

The opium held him fast in its power.

"Now for the box," exclaimed the tiger, excitedly.

Chivey tore open the box, and lifting up some musty old deeds and
parchments, he feasted his eyes upon a mine of wealth.

A pile of gold.

Bright glittering pieces of every size and country.

And beside it thick bundles of paper money.

"Gold is uncommonly pretty," said the tiger, "but the notes packs the
closest."

Bundle after bundle he stowed away about his person, regularly padding
his chest under his shirt.

"Now for a trifle of loose cash," he said, coolly.

So saying, he dropped about sixty or seventy gold pieces into his
breeches pocket.

His waistcoat pockets he stuffed full also.

Then he pushed back the box into its place under the bed.

"The old man still sleeps," he said to himself, looking round at the
bed.

He was in a rare good humour with himself.

"Ha, ha! I am rich now," said Chivey. "Thank you, old seņor, you have
done me a good turn. May you sleep long."

He gave a final glance about him and made off.

                  *          *          *          *

A distant church clock tolled the hour of midnight as he gained the
seashore.

He was in luck.

Not a soul did he encounter until he reached the beach, when he came
upon two sailors, launching a rowing boat.

"'Mogador?'" he said, in a tone of inquiry.

"_Si_, seņor."

"That's your sort," said Chivey. "I want to see Captain Gonzales."

"Come with us, then," said one of the sailors.

"Rather," responded the tiger; "off we dive; whip 'em up, tickle him
under the flank, and we're there in a common canter."

The sailors both understood a little of English.

In very little time they were standing on the deck of the "Mogador."

And facing Chivey as he scrambled up the side, was the master of the
ship, Captain Gonzales, to whom Chivey was presented at once by one of
the sailors.

"Seņor Velasquez has sent me to you, captain," said the ever ready
tiger.

"Then you are welcome."

"He told me to give you that," said Chivey, handing the captain a pair
of banknotes; "and to beg you to give me the best of accommodation in a
cabin all to myself."

"It shall be done."

"And above all not to let Mr. Murray know of my presence on board when
he comes."

"Good."

"I am going on very important business for Seņor Velasquez, captain,"
pursued Chivey, with infinite assurance; "as you may judge, for he
values your care of me at one hundred crowns to be paid on your next
visit here."

"Rely upon my uttermost assistance."

"Thank you," said Chivey, with a patronising smile; "and now I'll be
obliged to you to show me to my berth."

"Here," cried the Spanish captain. "Pedro--Juan--Lopez. Take this
gentleman to my private cabin."

The "Mogador" stood out to sea bravely enough.

Chivey was there.

Herbert Murray was there.

But the latter little suspected the presence of the former.

Herbert Murray, in fancied security, was reclining on deck upon some
cushions he had got up from below, smoking lazily, and looking up at
the blue sky overhead, when Chivey, who had been looking vainly out for
an appropriate cue to make his reappearance, slipped suddenly forward,
and touching his hat, remarked in the coolest manner in the world--

"Did you ring for me, sir?"

Herbert looked up just as if he had seen a ghost.

"Chivey!"

"Guv'ner."

Herbert Murray stared at his villainous servant.

But villainous as Chivey was, Herbert Murray never thought a bit about
that.

His heart leaped to his mouth, and he was overjoyed to find him there.

"Oh, Chivey, you vagabond!" he ejaculated. "I'm so awfully glad to see
you."

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."

There's a lot of truth in that trite and homely old saying.

For one little phrase from the guilty Herbert had come so straight from
the heart that even the villainous tiger was touched immediately.

"Look here, guv'nor," said Mr. Chivey, "I don't think you are half so
bad as I thought. My opinion is that you are not half as bad as some of
'em, and that the ugly job up at the gravel pits was all of my
provoking. I bear no malice."

"You don't!" exclaimed his master, quite overjoyed.

"Not a bit."

"Shake hands."

Chivey obeyed.

And they were faster friends than ever after that.

But what about Seņor Velasquez?

What about all their compacts with the villain?

For the time they were of no use to that plotter, whose plans had, up
to the present time, failed.




CHAPTER LXIII.

THE ORPHAN IS PRESENTED AT COURT--IS A BIT NERVOUS--LESSONS IN THE
TURKISH LANGUAGE--MANNERS AND CUSTOMS--THE PASHA OF MANY WIVES--AN
OFFICIAL PRESENT--BOWSTRINGING--AN EXECUTION--HORROR! THE ORPHAN'S
PERIL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.


Having got Chivey and his master together again, we now travel to the
Turkish coast to be in the company of young Jack and his friends.

The orphan had been roused from his slumbers to be presented to the
pasha of that province.

His excellency the pasha had done them the honour to pay them a visit
of ceremony on board ship, and was seated in great state surrounded by
his suite in the best saloon.

After the chief personages on board had been presented, his excellency
had, according to Captain Deering, desired to see that distinguished
personage, Mr. Figgins, _alias_ the orphan.

And now the orphan stood trembling outside the door of the saloon.

"In you go, Mr. Figgins," whispered Captain Deering.

"One moment."

"Nonsense."

"Just a word."

"Bah!" said the captain, with a grin; "you aren't going to have a tooth
out. In with you."

He opened the door, gave the timorous orphan a vigorous drive behind,
and Mr. Figgins stood in the august presence.

The pasha was seated--it would be irreverent to say squatted, which
would better express it--upon a cushion that was, as Paddy says,
hanging up on the floor.

His excellency was in that peculiar, not to say painful attitude, which
less agile mortals find unattainable, but which appears to mean true
rest to Turk or tailor.

The pasha rejoiced in a beard of enormous dimensions, a grizzled
dirt-coloured beard that almost touched the cushion upon which he sat.

A turban of red and gold silk was upon his venerable head.

And beside his excellency upon a cushion were laid his arms, weapons of
barbarous make, thought the orphan.

A scimitar, curved _ā la_ Saladin, two long-barrelled pistols, with
jewelled butts, "as though they were earrings or bracelets," the orphan
said to himself, a long dagger with an ivory hilt and sheath, and a
piece of cord.

"That's to tie them together with," mentally decided the orphan. "One
might as well travel with the Woolwich Arsenal or the armoury from the
Tower. Barbarous old beast."

"Now," said Captain Deering, "tuck in your tuppenny, Mr. Figgins; bow
as low as you can."

The orphan put his back into an angle of forty-five with his legs.

"Lower."

"Ugh!"

"A little bit more."

"Lower," said Captain Deering, in an agonised whisper. "We shall all be
bowstrung if his excellency thinks us wanting in respect."

The orphan thus admonished made a further effort, and over he went

Head first!

There was such a chattering, such horrible sounds going on, as Captain
Deering scrambled after the unfortunate orphan, that the latter thought
his time was come.

The captain dragged him to his feet, however.

Then the presentation was proceeded with.

"His Excellency Ali Kungham Ben Nardbake," cried a dignitary standing
beside the pasha, with a voice like a toastmaster.

"Good gracious me!" exclaimed the orphan, "all that?"

"That's not half of it," said Captain Deering. "To the faithful, he is
known as well as Sid Ney Ali Ben Lesters puar Nasr ed Bowstrung and
Strattford Bustum."

Mr. Figgins was greatly alarmed at this.

"Powerful memories his godfathers and godmothers must have had," he
murmured.

Beside the pasha stood an official, with a beard of extraordinary
length.

"Who's that?"

"Hush?" whispered Deering; "don't speak so loud."

"Who is he?" again asked the orphan, sinking his voice.

"The one with the beard?"

"Yes."

"His name is Whiska Said Mahmoud Ben Ross Latreille," returned Deering.

"Dear, dear!" murmured the orphan, in despairing accents, "I shall
never----"

"Ease her, stop her!" cried a familiar voice in Mr. Figgins's ear,
"you've got it in a knot."

It was Nat Cringle.

All was hushed.

The bearded official looked at the pasha, who nodded.

Then drawing his sword, he signed to two of his men, and Nat Cringle,
looking dreadfully frightened, was bustled off behind a curtain which
had been rigged up across the saloon, just at the pasha's back.

"What are they going to do?" asked the orphan, his teeth chattering in
alarm.

Captain Deering was so much affected at this stage of the proceedings
that he covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief.

"Poor Nat!"

"What is it?" faltered Mr. Figgins, faintly.

"Did you not see the cord taken away with Nat?" demanded the captain,
in a funereal bass.

"Ye-es."

"Then hark."

Mr. Figgins did hark, and an awful sound reached him from behind the
curtain.

It was more like the expiring groans of a hapless porker in the hands
of a ruthless butcher, than any thing else you could compare it to.

A fatal struggle was going on behind the curtain.

Groans and dying wails were heard for awhile.

Awful sounds.

Then all was still.

"Oh, what is it?" murmured the orphan, in distress.

"Squiziz Wizen, the pasha's executioner, has dealt upon poor Nat
Cringle."

"What!" gasped Figgins.

"Bowstrung," returned Captain Deering.

The orphan turned faint.

Then he turned to the door, and would have fled.

"Oh, let me go home," he cried. "I don't feel happy here."

But Deering stayed him.

"You must not go, Mr. Figgins," whispered Captain Deering.

"Why not?"

"His excellency is about to address us."

The pasha coughed.

"_Quel est votre jeu?_" demanded his excellency.

"What does he say?" asked Figgins.

"Batta pudn," continued his excellency, with a gracious air; "also bono
Jonni."

"He says you may present whatever you have brought," whispered the
captain.

"I've brought nothing," returned Mr. Figgins.

"Nothing?"

"No; I forgot."

"Thoughtless man," said Captain Deering. "Take this."

He thrust a parcel of brown paper into his hands.

"What shall I do with it?"

"Place it on the cushion before his excellency."

Mr. Figgins complied.

"Luciousosity," said the pasha, looking upon the offering greedily.

Then he clapped his hands vigorously three times.

The minister appeared, leading two veiled ladies.

The pasha made some remarks in his own language, which Captain Deering
was commissioned to render into English.

"His excellency, recognising your generous offering," said he,
"presents you with the choicest gifts of his seraglio, two wives. You
must cherish them through life."

The orphan's countenance fell at this.

The capital punishment of poor Nat Cringle was as nothing to this.

"Tell him I'd rather not take two," he whispered to Deering.

"Why not?" ejaculated the latter.

"I wish to live single."

The bearded minister approached, leading the two veiled beauties.

"Oh! oh, dear," groaned the poor orphan.

He placed a gloved hand of each upon Mr. Figgins's shoulders.

Then, upon a given signal, they threw their arms around the orphan and
hugged him, while a violent cachinnation was heard.

"What a lovely smile," said Captain Deering. "Did you hear it?"

"Oh! Please don't," cried the orphan.

He struggled to get free.

But the beauties of the seraglio held him tight.

The orphan grew desperate, and jerked himself out of their clutches.

But in the tussle down he flopped on the ground again.

"Infidel dog!" roared the pasha, venting his wrath in English,
"barbarian and idolater, thou shalt die!"

Thereupon, Captain Deering dropped down beside the orphan, and sued for
mercy.

"Be merciful, O great prince!" he cried. "Have pity on your humblest
slave. His heart is filled with gratitude."

The pasha growled some reply that was indistinct, but which to the
startled Figgins, sounded like the rumbling of distant thunder.

"Oh, what shall I do?" moaned the orphan. "Oh, somebody take me home."

"Silence," whispered Captain Deering. "Prostrate yourself as they do.
Bury your face and be silent, until his excellency bids you rise. He
may then overlook it."

Mr. Figgins scarce dared to breathe.

There he lay, with his face upon the ground, humbly awaiting the stern
despot's permission to move.

                  *          *          *          *

He waited long--very long.

While he waited thus, a strange commotion was observed amongst the
pasha's suite.

The chief officer removed his turban and beard, and--wonderful to
relate!--beneath it was the laughing face of Harry Girdwood.

He winked at his august master, who hurriedly removed his turban and
beard as well.

And then the pasha bore a marvellous resemblance to Jack Harkaway the
younger.

They helped to drag off each other's robes--for beneath their Turkish
garments were their everyday clothes.

The veiled beauties of the harem were disrobed.

Beneath their veils and feminine attire they were familiarly garbed,
and a glance revealed them to be Tinker and his body-guard Bogey.

"Now then, Mr. Figgins," said Nat Cringle, "wake up."

The orphan looked up in amazement at the sound.

"Nat Cringle!"

"Hullo!"

Mr. Figgins looked about in wonderment.

Facing him was Jack Harkaway, sitting upon a camp stool, and beside him
stood his constant companion, Harry Girdwood.

Engaged in conversation with them was Captain Deering, and the subject
of their conversation appeared to be the orphan himself.

The Turkish soldiers and people generally forming the pasha's suite had
disappeared, and in their places were several sailors, some of whom
appeared to be considerably amused at something.

When Mr. Figgins sat up and looked about him, he muttered--

"What's all this?"

"A very serious case, Harry," said Jack, gravely.

"Very."

"A case for the doctor."

"What do you mean?"

"These habits of drinking grow upon one," said Harry Girdwood, sadly.

"I don't understand," faltered the orphan.

"Shall we help you to bed, sir?" asked one of the sailors
compassionately.

"Never!" cried Mr. Figgins, with majesty.

"Oh, yes, do," said Harry.

But nerved to desperation, the orphan tore himself away from them, and
darted to the door.

"I shall go and report upon these outrageous doings to the captain of
the ship," he said, drawing himself up.

"Here's the captain himself," said a good-natured voice behind him.
"And now, what can he do for you, Mr. Figgins?"

The orphan turned.

There was the captain.

"Mr. Figgins," said the captain, with a serious air, and shaking his
forefinger at him, "you have been indulging very early in the day."

"What?"

He could endure no more.

With a cry of disgust, he dashed past the captain, and scrambled up the
stairs on deck.

Once there, he shot like a race horse along the deck, and gaining his
own berth, he locked himself in.

But even here he could not shut out the ringing laughter of the
incorrigible practical jokers.

Mr. Figgins, as you may guess, was seen no more that day.

                  *          *          *          *

Upon the day following the events just related, Jack received letters
from home.

And among them was one which created no little excitement amongst the
nearest friends of Jack Harkaway.

"Do you think it probable that he'll come?"

"I shouldn't wonder," said Harry Girdwood.

"I should like to see his dear old face again," said Jack.

"I'll bet a penny that we shall see him here yet; if not here, at least
at our next stage," said Harry.

"It would be a rare treat to talk with someone who had seen our dear
folks at home."

"It would indeed. I hope he will come."

And who did they hope would come?

Can you not guess reader? No.

Then read on, and you will learn who it was and what were the reasons
which were to bring a friend from home roaming to this distant shore to
meet Jack and his friends.




CHAPTER LXIV.

THE SAPIENT DOCTOR MUGGINS CAME IN HASTE--IMPEDIMENTS IN THE WAY OF
THE PRESCRIPTION--DWELLS ON ARTIFICIAL LIMBS--OLD-REMINISCENCES--THE
TORMENTOR.


Reader, we will return for a little time to our old friend, Mole, in
England.

Mr. Mole was sad.

For so many years of his life had old Isaac Mole led a wandering
career, that he found it exceedingly difficult, not to say irksome, to
settle down to the prosy existence which they had all dropped into.

He never complained, it is true.

But he fell into a sort of settled melancholy, which nothing could
shake off, and even grew neglectful of the bottle.

His friends grew anxious.

They wished him to take medical advice.

He resisted all persuasion stoutly.

So they had recourse to artifice, and invited an eminent medical man to
their house as a visitor.

And then under the guise of a friendly chat, the doctor took his
observations.

But the peculiar ailment, if ailment it could be called, of Isaac Mole,
completely baffled the man of science at first.

It was only in a casual conversation that, being an observing man, he
discovered the real truth.

"Our patient wants a roving commission," said the physician to himself.

And then he communicated his own convictions to old Jack.

"I scarcely believe it possible, doctor," said Jack.

But the doctor was positive.

"Nothing will do him any good but to get on the move; I'm as sure of
that as I am that he has no physical ailment."

"What's to be done then?" demanded Harkaway. "He can't travel alone."

"I don't know that," said the doctor; "he's hale and wiry enough. The
only difficulty that I can see, is Mrs. Mole."

"I'll undertake to get over that," said Jack.

"You will?"

"Yes."

"It is settled then," said the physician, with a smile.

"Good."

"What would do him more good than all the physic in the world, would be
to send him after your son."

"My Jack!"

"Yes."

"Impossible. Why, Jack is _en route_ for Turkey."

"What of that?" coolly inquired the doctor.

"Consider the distance, my dear doctor."

"Pshaw, sir. Distance is nothing nowadays. It was a very different
thing when I was a boy. Take my word for it, Mr. Harkaway, our patient
will jump at the chance."

"He's very much attached to my roving boy."

"I know it," returned the doctor. "Never a day passes but he speaks of
him; I declare that I never had a single interview with Mr. Mole, but
that he has managed somehow to turn the conversation upon your son and
his pranks."

"Oh, Jack, he has played him some dreadful tricks."

"Yes," returned the physician dryly, "and so has Jack's father, by all
accounts."

"Ahem!"

"And yet I really believe that he enjoys the recollection of the boy's
infamous practical jokes."

"I believe you are right," responded Harkaway.

A day or two later on the doctor was seated with Mr. Mole.

"Mr. Mole."

"Doctor."

"Your health must be looked to. You'll have to travel."

"How, doctor?" said Mole.

"Young Harkaway is in foreign parts, and his prolonged absence causes
his parents considerable uneasiness, and you must go and look after
him."

Mole's eyes twinkled.

"Do you mean it?"

"I do. When would you like to start?"

"To-day."

"Very good. The sooner the better," said the doctor.

Mr. Mole's countenance fell suddenly.

An ugly thought crossed him.

What would Mrs. Mole say?

"There is one matter I would like to consult you on, doctor."

"What might that be?" demanded the doctor.

"My wife might have a word to say upon the subject."

"I will undertake to remove her scruples," said the doctor.

"You will?"

"Yes. She will never object when she knows how important your mission
is."

"Doctor," exclaimed Mr. Mole, joyously; "you are a trump."

A delay naturally occurred, however.

Mr. Mole could not travel with his wooden stumps, his friends one and
all agreed.

No.

He must have a pair of cork legs made.

The doctor who had been attending our old friend knew of a maker of
artificial limbs who was a wonderful man, according to all accounts.

"Yes," said Mole, "cork legs well hosed will----"

At this moment a voice tuning up under the window cut him short,

    "He gave his own leg to the undertaker,
    And sent for a skilful cork-leg maker.
                            Ritooral looral."

"That's Dick Harvey. Infamous!" ejaculated Mr. Mole.

    "On a brace of broomsticks never I'll walk,
    But I'll have symmetrical limbs of cork.
                            Ritooral looral."

"Monstrous!" exclaimed Mr. Mole; "close the window, sir, if you
please."

It was all very well to say "Close it," but this was easier said than
done.

Dick Harvey had fixed it beyond the skill of that skilful mechanician
to unfasten.

                  *          *          *          *

The aggravating minstrel continued without--

    "Than timber this cork is better by half,
    Examine likewise my elegant calf.
                            Ritooral looral----"

"I will have that window closed," cried Mole.

He arose, forgetting in his haste that he was minus one leg, and down
he rolled.

The artificial limb-maker lunged after him, and succeeded with infinite
difficulty in getting him on to his feet again.

"Dear, dear!" said Mr. Mole. "No matter, I can manage it."

He picked up the nearest object to hand, and hurled it out of window.




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.




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.

    [Illustration: "TINKER HOPPED ROUND HIM NIMBLY, AND GAVE HIM
    ANOTHER TASTE OF THE STEEL."--TINKER. VOL. II.]

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.




CHAPTER LXVII.

MR. MOLE'S LETTER--A TRIP ASHORE--THE TURKISH BAZAAR--A MUSSULMAN
SLIPPER MERCHANT--WONDER ON WONDERS--BY THE PIPER THAT PLAYED BEFORE
MOSES, AN IRISH TURK.


It is now high time to give Mr. Mole's letter which threw young Jack
Harkaway and his friend Harry Girdwood into such a state of excitement.

Here it is verbatim.

    "MY DEAR BOY JACK,--The prolonged silence you have kept has
    rendered your absence a matter of serious moment to us all here,
    and to me more than all; I can bear it no longer. I intend to come
    in search of you and see for myself what keeps your tongue tied.
    Ah, I mean to rout you out and give a sharp eye to your
    shortcomings. Expect me then soon, for I hope to run athwart you,
    yardarm and yardarm, as an old salt we once knew used to say.

    "Believe me, my dear Jack,

    "Ever sincerely yours,

    "ISAAC MOLE.

    "P.S.--I am told that the native liquors where you are staying are
    more cheering than inebriating in their effects. This will suit me
    capitally; but as you and your companions may find sherbet rather
    thin diet, I shall bring with me a bottle or two of something with
    a more decided flavour."

"I tell you what," said Jack to his comrade Harry, "we shall have to
look out for poor old Mole. We must send word back by special courier,
that he may know what direction we have taken."

Messages were sent by sure hands to the different stations which they
had made upon their journey, to guide Mr. Mole to the place Jack and
Harry were stopping at.

"Meanwhile my only recommendation is, young gentlemen, that you don't
get yourselves embroiled in any way with the native folks here any
more. The Mussulmen are fierce and fanatical, and the least provocation
may make them burst out into wildness."

The speaker was Captain Deering, and the occasion of it was the eve of
another projected trip by Jack Harkaway and Harry Girdwood.

"We shall be careful, captain," said the latter.

"Of course," said Deering, with a merry twinkling in his eye; "you
always are."

"Always."

"There's not much to fear, captain," said Jack, lightly.

"Oh, yes, there is," responded Deering, quickly, "very much."

"How?"

"Why, very little will provoke a Mussulman when he has to deal with a
Christian."

"But no one would be indelicate enough to show a want of respect to
their religious scruples," answered Harry.

"I don't see how we can interfere with them at all," said Jack. "Why
should the question of religion be raised?"

"Not by you," returned Captain Deering, "but by them, for they will at
any time unite to fall upon an unlucky Christian if opposed to a
Mussulman in a dispute, should the Turk choose to invoke their aid
against the unbelievers, as they stigmatise the Christians."

"Well, captain," said Jack, who jibbed at being lectured, "you need not
fear for us; we shall be careful enough."

"No doubt, Master Jack," returned the captain, drily. "You're a mild
spring chicken, you are; it is only that wild, rampagious companion of
yours that I want you to look after."

Saying which, he left the two boys to their own devices.

"That's a nasty jar," said Harry, with a chuckle.

Tinker and Bogey were their only companions.

Jack and Harry had taken the orphan once more under their protection
since his narrow escape from the trial he had passed through with the
bashaw, and hearing from the orphan the description of the Turk he had
bought his dress from, they resolved to pay him a visit.

In the bazaar there were Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Arabs, and a motley
collection of coloured people.

The Turkish dealers sat at their stalls, pushing trade in a taciturn
manner, speaking little, it is true, but when they did make a remark,
it was to tell lies with earnest gravity about their wares.

"If you could only speak Turkish as glibly as you did to Mr. Figgins,"
said Harry Girdwood, "you should go and cheapen a fez for me, Jack."

"I could manage that, Harry," replied Jack.

"No, no," said Harry; "remember what the poor orphan suffered through
buying his Turkish dress."

"Bother that," returned Jack. "Let's go and have a lark with that chap
selling the slippers."

"Be careful."

There were several slipper vendors present.

Jack picked up a pair of slippers and inquired the price.

The dealer gave him an odd look.

Jack looked round to Harry Girdwood for assistance.

"I can't help you," returned Harry. "Ask him again."

"What's the figure, old Turkey rhubarb?" asked Jack, bowing as if
paying the merchant a compliment.

The Turk replied with the same gravity.

"He don't appear to understand," said Harry Girdwood. "Try him in St.
Giles's Greek?"

"What's the damage for the brace of trotter boxes, old Flybynight?"
demanded young Harkaway, looking as solemn as a judge.

The Turkish merchant repeated the price in his native tongue, and they
made no progress in their deal.

While they were thus engaged, who should come into the bazaar but Nat
Cringle, and with him their old friend the Irish diver?

"I'll put it to him. Mayhap he'll understand me. What an illigant ould
thafe it is," said the diver, when he had waited some time for a reply.

"Why don't ye answer, ye dirrty ould spalpeen?" he demanded, after a
pause. "Be gorra, av ye don't sphake, I'll give ye one wid my twig."

Saying which, he flourished his shillelagh before the slipper
merchant's face, and then gave him a smart tap on his head.

The grave old Turk then found his tongue, and the reply was such a
startler, that the four travellers were knocked off their moral
equilibrium.

"Tare and 'ounds, ye blackyard omadhauns! Ye thavin' Saxin vaggybones!
ave ye'd only thread on the tail av me coat, so as to give me a
gintlemanly excuse for blackin' yer squintin' eyes, I'd knock yez into
next Monday week, the blessed lot av yez!"

The four visitors stared at each other in wonder.

They had not a word to say for themselves.

No wonder that it took their breath away.

The Irish diver was the first to find his tongue.

"By the blessed piper that played before Moses, here's an Irish Turk!"

"Stop that!" ejaculated the slipper merchant; "av ye call me names,
I'll have a go at yez av ye was as big as a house."

"Ye're Paddy from Cork," retorted the diver.

"Niver," protested the merchant, stoutly.

"Get along wid yez," retorted the diver, "ye Mahommedan Mormonite; now
I'll take short odds to any amount up to a farden that that brogue came
from Galway. Tell the truth, and shame the ould gintleman as shall be
nameless."

The Turk had an inward struggle, and then he confessed. He was an
Irishman, settled for some years in Turkey.

"But devil a word must ye say. Ye'll spoil me shop entirely," he said,
"av the folks hereabout takes me for a Christian gintleman, and I shall
be kilt intirely."




CHAPTER LXVIII.

PADDY MAHMOUD PLAYS THE PASHA--LOCAL STATISTICS--VISIT TO THE
KONAKI--HOSPITALITY VERSUS AL KORAN.


The Irish Turk contrived, after some talk, that our friends should
procure an entry into the palace of the pasha.

"Back stairs infloonce, me boys," said the Irish Turk, with a wink, "is
an illigant institooshn, and is jist as privlint here, sorrs, as it is
in St. James's or at the castle."

"How do you work it?"

"I have my own particular pals, which shall be nameless, at the pasha's
palace."

"Officers?"

The Irish Turk looked very demure and replied--

"Not exactly officers; officeresses, ye understand."

"You're a terrible Turk, Paddy," laughed young Jack.

"When shall we be able to get over the palace?" demanded Harry
Girdwood.

"Come to me in the course of to-morrow afternoon," said the Irish Turk.

"We will."

                  *          *          *          *

This arranged, they strolled through the bazaar, trading and bartering
with the dealers, and making an odd collection of purchases, to take
home as curiosities.

But of all the curiosities, the most remarkable was perhaps a pair of
real Egyptian mummies, which they discovered in the possession of a
shrewd and greedy old Arab.

"We shall have quite an extensive museum," said Jack.

"Blessed if I care to see a brace o' stiff uns on board," growled Nat
Cringle.

"We shall not for the present take them on board," said Jack; "we shall
first take them to our rooms. We shall find some use for the mummies,
eh, Harry?"

"I believe you, my boy," said Harry. "We'll name the mummies Mole and
the orphan. Ha, ha!"

Well, that same afternoon, as agreed upon, young Jack and Harry
Girdwood presented themselves at the residence of the Irish Turk, Paddy
Mahmoud Ben Flannigan, as the boys had christened him.

They had got themselves up _ā la Turc_.

Tinker and his attendant Bogey were also suitably attired.

They found the Irishman seated upon the floor with his legs under him.

He arose as the guests entered, and advanced to greet them politely.

"Make yourselves at home, gentlemen," he said, "and say what'll ye take
before we get along."

Jack tipped the wink to his companion.

"I'd like a little nip of something to cure the belly-ache," he
answered slily.

"Ye can have that same," responded their host.

He went to a cupboard, and produced a stumpy, but capacious bottle, and
three glasses.

"Whatever is that?" said Harry, in affected surprise.

"A drop of the crater," responded Paddy Mahmoud, pouring it out.

"Here's your health," said Harry Girdwood.

The two lads nodded at their host, and sipped.

The Irish Turk tossed off his whisky at a gulp.

"When shall you be ready to go up to the palace?" asked Jack.

"All in good time," returned the host. "In the first place, it is not
called the palace."

"What then?"

"The Konaki."

"Konaki!"

"That's it. Now I'll show you exactly how to conduct yourselves when
you are presented at court," he said.

Three servants entered, carrying three pipes, each of the same size,
and each having jewelled amber mouth-pieces.

The servants drew themselves up like automatons, each placing his right
hand on his heart.

The next moment they were inhaling their first draught of some
wonderful tobacco, the host keeping up the traditional Turkish custom
of puffing half a minute or so before the guests.

When they had puffed away in silence for some little time, the servants
returned.

One of them carried a crimson napkin, richly embroidered with gold,
thrown over his left shoulder.

And others carried a coffee tray, upon which were cups of elegant
filagree work.

Each of the guests were presented with a cup of coffee--not very nice
according to our notions, being thick, unstrained and unsweetened.

Yet the Turks are considered the only people who really understand the
art of making coffee.

This disposed of, the servants retired.

"Now," says the host, "that's just what ye'll have to do when you go up
to the Konaki, to be, so to speak, presented at court. When you go
visiting his excellency the pasha on any business, no matter how
pressing it may be, you mustn't speak of it until the pipes and the
coffee have been got through. You have only to observe this little
customary bit of etiquette, and all will go on merrily as a marriage
bell."

"Have you ever seen the pasha yourself?" asked Jack.

"Often."

"What's he like?"

"Every inch a gentleman."

This rather surprised them.

"Now let's come off, and you shall see over the Konaki."




CHAPTER LXIX.

THE JOYS OF THE SERAGLIO--A GROUP OF PEEPING THOMASES--THE CIRCASSIAN
SLAVES--TINKER AND BOGEY ARE IN FOR IT--THE ALARM--ATTEMPTED
RESCUE--AWAY WITH THEM--THE IRISHMAN TELLS A FEW WHITE ONES TO A
PURPOSE.


The slipper merchant had selected a favourable moment for their visit
to the Konaki.

The pasha--or to speak more correctly, the pasha's deputy, for it was
the deputy that had imposed upon the poor orphan--was absent from the
house temporarily, and so they were able to walk about whither they
listed, thanks to the backstairs influence of which their friend and
guide had boasted.

The head of the pasha's household was the person to whom they owed this
unusual privilege.

There was not a great deal to see in the Konaki now that they were
there, and their visit would probably have been cut very short had they
not been attracted by sounds of distant music just as they were upon
the point of leaving.

"What's that?" said Jack.

"That's from the seraglio," returned their conductor; "some Circassian
girls that have just been sent as a present to the pasha are very
clever dancers, it is said."

Jack pricked up his ears at this.

"Come on," he said, moving forward briskly.

"To this seraglio?"

"Aye."

"Why, you rash boy," said the Irish Turk, with a frightened look, "do
you know what you are talking about?"

"Well, yes, I think so," said Jack; "dancing Circassian girls and the
seraglio was the topic of the conversation, unless I am wandering in my
mind."

"Faith, ye must be mad," said the Irishman, gravely; "why, they'd think
hanging too good for any man that even looked at the harem."

"So should I," returned Jack; "I've no wish to be hanged; it's too good
for me. Come on."

"Don't be foolish; it's death, if we're caught."

"All right," said Jack, cheerfully; "it's sure then that we mustn't be
caught, but I don't mean to miss the chance all the same."

The Irishman resisted stoutly.

But Jack was more obstinate than he was, and so the Irishman was forced
to yield a point.

"I know where there's a gallery that overlooks the harem, and you can
see all the fun of the fair without being observed."

"You seem to know the place very well," said Jack.

"Very."

"But of course you have never been to this identical gallery before?"
said Jack, innocently.

"Never--never."

His eagerness to impress this upon them told its own tale.

"I should think that's true, Jack," said Harry, demurely.

"Oh, yes, quite," said Jack, winking at Harry.

The Irishman led the way along a paved passage, at the end of which was
an arched entrance to an apartment, closed off only by a heavy curtain.

"You see that curtain?" whispered their guide.

"Yes."

"That's the harem."

"Come on, then," said Jack, eagerly.

"Stop, stop!" exclaimed the Irishman. "The other side of the curtain
are two----"

Before he could complete the sentence, the curtain was dragged aside,
and two armed negroes appeared.

Their appearance was sudden and startling.

Each carried a drawn sword, a scimitar of formidable size.

They looked about as ugly customers as you would wish to see.

"Two eunuchs," whispered the Irishman, "they are guarding the seraglio.
Come away."

"Ugly enough for heathen gods," whispered Harry Girdwood.

The two eunuchs stood like statues on guard.

The slipper merchant said something to them in Turkish which appeared
to satisfy them.

"Massa Jack," whispered Tinker, who was one of the party, tugging at
his young master's sleeve, "Massa Jack."

"What now?"

"Dat one ob de beasts what chuck de pusson in de water alive in de
sack, sar."

"What!" ejaculated Harry Girdwood.

"Fack, Massa Harry," said Tinker, stoutly. "Guess I know dat ugly brack
niggar, sar, a tousan' mile off--beast!"

"Come on. Don't appear to notice them," said the Irishman. "It's
awkward work now. If they had half a suspicion, they would drop on us
right and left, and not leave a limb on either one of our blessed
bodies."

He led the way until they came to a gallery that overlooked the
seraglio.

Their leader now warned them to keep silent.

In the chamber below were about a dozen Turkish ladies, all unveiled.

They were all gorgeously attired, and lolling about in indolent
attitudes, as if life were an indescribable bore to them.

Upon a square fringed carpet in