Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks
by Bracebridge Hemyng · English · Gutenberg #20320 · 503,419 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks
Author: Bracebridge Hemyng
Release date: January 9, 2007 [eBook #20320]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20320
Credits: Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK HARKAWAY'S BOY TINKER AMONG THE TURKS ***
Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
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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.
"Señor Velasquez," he said to himself, as a happy thought crossed him.
"Señor 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."
Señor 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 Señor 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 Señor 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 Señor Jack Harkaway."
Chivey looked about him rather anxiously.
"Don't be so imprudent, Señor Velasquez," he said. "You are a precious
dangerous party to have any thing to do with."
"Not I," returned Señor 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 Señor 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 SEÑOR 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."
Señor 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.
Señor 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, Señor 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 Señor Velasquez?" he asked.
"I begged for a few words in private," answered Velasquez.
"Take a seat, Señor 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."
Señor 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, Señor 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.
"Señor 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, Señor 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, Señor 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, señor."
Young Murray little dreamt of the cause of the notary's peculiar smile.
"Your sole danger, as I take it, Señor 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.
* * * *
Señor 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 Señor 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 Señor 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, Señor 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, señor," 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, señor."
"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 Señor 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 señor, 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_, señor."
"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.
"Señor 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 Señor 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 Señor 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 _à 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 _à 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 the middle of the room a Circassian
girl of rare beauty and perfect symmetry was gliding through a graceful
dance, to a low, melodious measure, which another girl of her own
country was chanting.
The dance resembled nothing that Jack and Harry had seen before.
As she turned round, the shawl she waved was made to describe a series
of circles.
And then, as she came to a sudden stop, it fell around her in graceful
folds and she looked like a very beautiful sculptured figure.
But before you could fairly admire her graceful form and beauteous
face, she had bounded off again in the mazy dance, to the intense
gratification of the idle lookers-on.
"What do you think of that?" whispered the Irishman.
"Lovely," returned Jack, enthusiastically.
"Beautiful," added Harry Girdwood. "What would little Emily say, Jack,
if she knew you were looking with loving eyes at that little beauty?"
The mention of little Emily's name made Jack silent for a minute or
two.
Presently he asked--
"Are these professional performers?"
"The dancer and the singer are two out of three Circassian slaves that
have been sent to the pasha as a present during his journey. He will be
pleased with the new acquisition when he returns, although one has met
an untimely end."
"Slaves! Is it possible?" said young Jack.
"Rather, my boy."
"What will they do with these slaves?"
"Various things. Perhaps keep them to amuse the ladies of the harem, as
you see now; perhaps make them beasts of burden; perhaps make more
wives of them. His excellency is not particular to a wife or two."
"He's a beast!" said young Jack; "and I should like to kick him."
"Gently, gently; it's the system of the country, dear boys, nothing
more."
"But," said Jack, "when you speak of the Circassian girl being sent as
a present to the pasha, do you mean the real pasha or the deputy? For
this Turk is the one that cheated the poor orphan out of his money."
"This is only the deputy; I mean the pasha himself," returned the Irish
Turk. "The deputy would like to appropriate the slaves himself."
"Do you think so?"
"I know it, and he does not mind what you would call murder now and
then."
"Perhaps that would account for what we saw in the bay, for the
horrible business with the sack."
"More than likely," said the Irish Turk, gravely. "But a slave, more or
less, even if it's a lovely girl, doesn't count for much in these
parts."
The boys gave a shudder.
They were not used to hearing murder discussed in such a cold-blooded
fashion.
"Tinker," said Jack, by way of changing the topic suddenly, "do you
think that you or Bogey could dance like that girl?"
"Go an' dance like dat," he said contemptuously. "Me an' dat nigger
dance a lot better, sar. Bogey!"
"Wall!"
"Over wid you."
And then, to the surprise and dismay of all the rest, the two darkeys
vaulted over the balustrade and dropped into the room beneath.
Had a bombshell fallen into the midst of the ladies of the harem, they
could not have been more surprised.
There was a half-stifled shriek from one, and they all flew into a
corner, where they stood huddled up together for protection.
But Tinker and his man were not at all put out by these strange
demonstrations upon the part of the ladies.
"Bogey."
"Yes, Massa Tinker."
"We'll jest take the floor togeder and show dem female gals what de
poetry of motion is like."
"Yah, yah!" grinned Bogey; "go it, my hunkey boy."
And they did go it.
There was not much of the poetry of motion about it, their dance being
of the breakdown genus.
And to tell the truth, the ladies appeared more frightened than pleased
with the darkeys' extraordinary evolutions.
The double shuffle excited wonderment.
When Bogey and Tinker brought down their respective hoofs with a bang,
great alarm was manifested.
By degrees, however, they appeared to grow more accustomed to the
eccentric evolutions of the young negroes, and presently one of them
laughed aloud at the quaint capers the boys were cutting.
This set them all laughing, and the mirth of the ladies was at its
height, when certain alarming sounds were heard without.
"By the holy fly," ejaculated the Irishman. "there's a row in the
house, and our frisky black boys'll lose their lives if they don't
watch it."
"What's the matter?" demanded young Jack.
"The deputy-pasha is back," whispered the Irishman, in evident anxiety.
"He has discovered the presence of strangers in the house. He's coming
along here with his guards, and there'll be the very devil to pay."
"What, about Tinker and Bogey?"
"They're dead as door-nails. There is an unwritten law which sentences
any man to death who violates the sanctity of a Turkish harem."
"Why don't they run out?" inquired Harry, anxiously.
"What for? To be cutdown by the armed eunuchs. No; better take their
chance where they are."
"I'm not going to leave them to die," said Jack; "I'll have a shy, for
it, if----"
"Hold your tongue," interrupted the Irishman, anxiously; "but look,
what the dooce are the girls up to with your black boys?"
Tinker and Bogey laboured under a very great disadvantage.
They could neither understand nor make themselves understood by the
fair creatures by whom they were surrounded.
However, they managed to glean that they were in danger, and that a
temporary haven of safety was to be found in an inner room beyond the
curtain facing the chief entrance, which was guarded by the two
eunuchs.
They were bustled into that apartment by the ladies of the harem to a
chorus of excited whisperings.
"Whatever are they going to do?" whispered Jack.
"Silence, not a word. Look there!" said the Irish Turk.
The heavy drapery before the chief entrance was drawn aside, and in
marched the fierce-looking Turk, that had tried to rob the orphan and
his cash-box, closely followed by the two eunuchs, who stood sentry at
the doorway.
"Now, there'll be the devil to pay," whispered the Irishman.
Osmond, the ruling bashaw for the time, had heard that strangers were
within the palace, and he hurried there with all speed.
When first he was apprised of this, his greed excited him, for some of
the chief sweets of his office were the presents.
The deputy-pasha was ready to accept as many as he could send.
"Strangers are present," he exclaimed, addressing one of the favourite
ladies; "now, by the beard of the Prophet, the intruders shall suffer!"
"What intruders?" said the lady.
The deputy-governor made towards the curtain.
But before he could enter, the lady with whom he had been talking
placed herself in his way.
"Stand aside----"
"Restrain your temper here," returned the lady; "his excellency would
not be pleased to hear of this."
These words appeared to cool the ferocity of the deputy-governor a
little.
"Let the strangers come forth then," he growled.
"It shall be done."
She passed to the further chamber.
A few moments later the curtain was dragged aside, and the two fair
Circassians came forth, each leading a veiled girl by the hand.
Strapping girls they were too; but so closely veiled that it was
impossible to see what their features were like.
"Were these the strangers?"
"Yes."
The deputy-governor glared at the new-comers, and then dismissed the
Circassian girls.
They refused to go at first, upon which he grew rabid with anger.
"Your sister Selika opposed my wishes once," he said, with cruel
significance; "she will never oppose me more. Begone!"
They tremblingly obeyed the tyrant.
This done, he sent the two armed eunuchs off with a wave of the hand.
* * * *
"What's up now, I wonder?" whispered Jack.
"Wait."
The Irishman had an odd suspicion.
And his suspicion was very soon realised.
* * * *
"Remove your veil," said Osmond, the deputy-pasha, peremptorily.
But he might as well have addressed a stone wall.
The tyrant waited a moment.
Then he seized one of the girls and dragged her aside, tearing down her
veil as he did so, and--
Oh, what a roar.
A wild ejaculation of disgust escaped him, for the face under the veil
was black.
Black as night, with huge, saucer-like eyes, and a huge mouth wearing a
grin that was alarming.
"Yah, yah! don't you like me, old man? Tink I do for you? Yah, yah!"
And Tinker stood with his tongue out, grinning at the fierce Turk.
The deputy-governor, enraged, made a rush at poor Tinker, and gave him
a spiteful, if undignified back hander.
"Golly!" cried Tinker. "Cantankerous immense beast, old Turkey."
"Oh!"
Just then the tyrant was greeted with a stinging spank on the side of
his face, and turning round, there was another negress--as he thought.
Or was it the same?
It looked the very identical face and form.
"Yah, yah!" grinned Bogey.
The deputy-governor looked round with a puzzled air.
"Yah, yah!" grinned Bogey, again.
"Yah, yah!" shouted Tinker, poking his fist into the ribs of the Turk,
and nearly doubling him up.
The Turk heard the derisive laugh, and he felt the tingling of his ear
and the poke in his ribs.
So he dashed at Bogey first.
Bogey feinted and dodged him.
But his petticoats got between his legs, and over he went sprawling.
The Turk sprang after him, and if Tinker had not been there, goodness
knows what would have been the result.
But Tinker was very much there.
He bobbed his head and shot straight forward, landing his
deputy-excellency fairly in the stomach, with his bare woolly pate.
"Ugh!" gasped the Turk, and down he went.
Bogey no sooner saw him there than he hammered into the Turk's
figure-head in the most violent and ungentlemanly way.
Jack and Harry Girdwood laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks.
"Begorra," whispered the Irishman, "it's better than a pantomime, but
some of us will suffer."
* * * *
But the end of the adventure promised to be serious.
The fierce Turk grew frightened, and he called for assistance.
In came the armed eunuchs ready for slaughter.
"Good-bye to your boys," said the Irishman, in a whisper.
"Not if I know it," returned Jack; "I'm on in this scene, old man."
"I'm with you, Jack," cried Harry.
Jack was in danger. Over went Harry to help him.
The fierce Turk was filled with wonder and dismay; the enemies appeared
to drop from the clouds.
"Now, old big bags," said young Jack, saucily, "come on, and see how a
Boy of England can fight."
The words were not intelligible to the Turks, but the gesture was
thoroughly understood.
There was a gong-bell close beside the deputy-pasha, and one tap on
this sufficed to bring a whole mob of armed men into the room.
"Seize these Franks!" exclaimed the tyrant, still holding his hands
round his sides in pain; "they have earned their fate. Let it be swift.
Away with them--oh, I am nearly killed--away with them!"
They resisted stoutly enough, fought like tiger-cats; but what was the
use?
None whatever.
The Irishman waited to hear an ugly order given anent bowstringing, and
then he came down stairs, and made his way artfully (so that his
presence in the gallery overlooking the seraglio might not be
suspected) to the corridor, where he once more discovered the two armed
eunuchs on guard, looking like ebony statues again, and as calm as if
they had never taken part in the short but stirring scene just
described.
"I wish to see his excellency the pasha," said he, "for I came here
conducting two young Englishman, of great distinction, who brought some
rich presents to his excellency."
One of the men went in, and brought out the tyrant.
To him the Irishman repeated his tale with an extravagant show of
respect and deference.
"Are these the two Franks?" demanded the Turk.
He gave the word as he spoke, and out from the seraglio marched Jack
and Harry Girdwood, their arms tightly bound to their sides, between a
strong escort of armed men.
"Yes, excellency," answered the Irishman.
"Then they have been there," returned the deputy-pasha; "you know what
that means?"
"They have erred through ignorance, your excellency."
"Then," replied the Turk, with vindictive significance, "within an hour
they will grow wiser. Away with them!"
And the prisoners were all marched away.
"Begorra," muttered the Irishman to himself, "it's all up."
But he never relaxed his efforts for all this.
"Pardon, O excellency," he said, "but these young gentlemen who have
offended through ignorance, being princes of the royal blood of
Britain, their continued absence will lead to inquiries, and----"
"They shall die like dogs if they are kings," growled the deputy-pasha.
"Let me entreat humbly that you wait the return of his excellency, for
these Franks are but savages, and the least slight, even to their
princes, would bring their ships of war along our coast; the town would
be razed to the ground."
"Ships of war!" responded the deputy-pasha.
"Yes, excellency," continued the Irishman, with a frightened air,
seeing the slight advantage he had got now, "the ship they came in is
now nearing the coast. It is well within range, with the cruel engines
of war these barbarians use. I tremble for the Konaki."
"They would never dare----"
"Pardon, they would dare any thing. The death of the two princes of the
blood royal would be the signal for the first shot, and then good-bye
to us all."
The deputy-pasha paused.
The Irishman eyed him askance.
"Begorra!" he muttered to himself, "that ought to be sthrong enough for
him. Them boys have made me tell enough lies in ten minutes to last a
Turk himself a lifetime. Be jabers, I've pitched it sthrong with a
purpose. He who hesitates is lost. He is thinking better of it."
The Irishman was right.
"I will reflect," said the Turk, with a dignified air; "I may not spare
their lives, but possibly await the return of his highness the pasha."
The Irishman was dismissed.
He bowed and retired.
CHAPTER LXX.
OSMOND AND LOLO THE SLAVE--THREATS AND DEFIANCE--THE CIRCASSIAN'S
DOOM--OSMOND EARNS HIS REWARD.
The three Circassian slaves had been sent as a present to the real
pasha, Osmond's master, by some friendly Algerian prince, and, arriving
in the absence of the pasha, the deputy had cast greedy eyes upon the
rich prize.
Finding all his authority was lost upon the Circassians girls, who
stoutly refused to be persuaded, he grew vicious.
Nothing was positively known, but the tragedy which Jack and Harry
Girdwood had witnessed hard by the water-gate of the Konaki, coupled
with the recognition of the two eunuchs by Tinker as the two assassins
whom he and Bogey had capsized into the water, made matters look
altogether very suspicious indeed.
The few threatening words which Osmond had muttered to one of the fair
Circassians, too, should have told their own tale.
The Circassian girls had endeavoured to screen those luckless negroes,
Tinker and Bogey, for had they not led the boys into the presence of
Osmond disguised as girls?
Here, then, was a pretext for further ill-usage of the unfortunate
slaves.
The girls were brought into the tyrant's presence.
"Stand out, deceitful and faithless slave," he said, addressing one of
the girls; "you are accused of treason to the pasha, and you know your
fate."
The girl addressed made no reply but by a bold, defiant glance.
"You are to die," said Osmond, watching the effect of his words as he
spoke.
The girls did not move nor utter a word.
"You know now my power," he went on to say in a low tone. "You have one
chance of life yet; would you know what that is?"
He waited for an answer.
He waited in vain.
The proud Circassian girls did not deign to notice him.
"You remember what I told your sister?" he said. "Reconsider what I
said, and it may not yet be too late."
"We do not need to speak again," returned one of the girls. "What we
have already said is our resolve."
"Death!" hissed the Turk, between his teeth.
He eagerly watched for the terror his words should have produced.
"Sooner death ten hundred times," returned the Circassian proudly,
"than acknowledge you for our master."
"You have spoken," exclaimed the Turk, fiercely.
He struck a bell, and one of the armed eunuchs entered.
"Remove these slaves to the cells as I told you; there they will remain
until nightfall. You understand me?"
The man placed his finger upon his lip--a sign of implicit
obedience--and the Circassian slaves were removed to prison.
They were doomed.
Another tragedy was planned--the sequel to that which Harry Girdwood
and young Jack had witnessed almost as soon as they were upon the
Turkish coast.
The cord and sack were once more to play their part.
And could nothing avert their fate?
Their peril was extreme--greater even than that of the English lads and
their faithful followers, Tinker and Bogey.
* * * *
"This is a pretty go," said Harry Girdwood, dolefully, as he looked
round him.
His tone was so grumpy, his look so glum, that Jack could not refrain
from laughing.
"Grumbling old sinner," said he; "you're never satisfied."
"Well, I like that," said Harry. "You get us into a precious hobble
through sheer wanton foolery, and then you expect me to like it."
"Now, don't get waxy," said Jack.
Tinker and Bogey did not understand the full extent of their danger.
They sat at the further end of the same chamber, grinning at their
masters, and, if the truth be told, rather enjoying the dilemma which
they were honoured by sharing with them.
Their masters would be sure to pull them all through safely.
Such was their idea.
As soon as they had been left alone in their prison, the boys had made
a survey, and Jack pronounced his opinion, and his determination with
the old air of confidence in himself.
"They're treating us with something like contempt, Harry," he said.
"How so?"
"By not guarding us better than this," was the reply.
"I don't quite see that, Jack; the door would take us all our time to
get through."
"Perhaps," returned Jack, "but look at the window, and just tell me
what you think of that?"
The window, or perhaps we had better have said hole in the wall--for
glass or lattice there was none--overlooked the sea.
They were in the part of the Konaki known as the water pavilion.
There was a drop of thirty feet to the water.
Thirty feet.
Just think what thirty feet is.
About the height of a two-story dwelling house.
"Supposing we get through there," said Harry Girdwood, "we should never
be able to swim all the way out to a friendly ship.
"My dear old wet blanket," returned Jack, "I got you into this mess,
and I'll get you out of it."
"I hope so."
They watched anxiously for a friendly ship.
At length their vigil was rewarded with success.
A big ship sailed into the bay with the British colours flying at her
masthead.
They almost shouted with joy at the sight.
"That's a deuce of a way off," said Harry Girdwood.
"About a mile."
"A mile is a precious good swim," grunted Harry.
"So much the better. These villainous old Turks won't be suspicious,
and a mile isn't much for either of us, I think. I don't mind it, and
we can answer for Tinker and his prime minister."
"Dat's so," said Bogey, grinning from ear to ear. "Yah, yah! Me and
Tinker swim with Massa Harry and Jack on our backs."
At dusk they matured their plan of action.
Tinker could float on the water like a cork, and was the swiftest
swimmer of the four.
Tinker was, therefore, lowered as far down as they could manage, and
then allowed to drop into the water.
It was a drop!
"Fought dis chile was gwine on dropping for a week, sar," said the
plucky young nigger, subsequently.
However, once he was on the surface, and got his wind well, he darted
through the water like a fish.
They watched his dusky form until they could see him no more.
"Now, Bogey."
"Ready, sar."
He was lowered and dropped the same as Tinker, and speedily was upon
the latter's track.
"Now my turn," said Jack. "I shall go in for a header."
"Don't," said Harry. "You'd never come up alive if you went down head
first from this height."
And Jack was dissuaded from this purpose.
He squeezed his body through the aperture.
"Give me your hand, Harry, while I look over."
His comrade obeyed, and Jack was able to see about him.
Now on his left, not more than ten feet down, was a large doorway, with
a flap similar to the doors on the water-side warehouses, in London,
from where the stores are lowered and raised from the barges by means
of an iron crane.
"I wonder what place that is?" said Jack; "if I could only reach it, my
fall would be very considerably broken."
He had a try.
They fastened their two scarves together, and Harry, making himself a
secure hold above, lowered Jack, and the latter swinging backwards and
forwards twice, dropped the second time fairly on the ledge.
It was a perilous hold.
But Jack was only second to Nero in monkey tricks, and he held on in a
most tenacious manner.
Swinging himself up he pushed his way into a dark and gloomy place.
A low vaulted chamber, dimly lighted by a flickering old lamp.
"Where am I now?"
Before he could look further to get an answer to this question, he was
startled by the sound of footsteps.
What should he do?
Leap out?
Or should he wait?
He decided to wait.
He crept up into a corner, the darkest he could find, and there, with a
beating heart, he awaited the progress of events.
He had not long to wait.
Two dusky forms glided spectrally into the place, one bearing a lamp.
With this, they looked about, and Jack, with a sinking at heart,
recognised the two eunuchs again.
"What devilment are they working now?" thought Jack.
They flashed the light just then upon the objects of their search.
Two huge sacks lay upon the floor.
Jack but imperfectly discerned what they were; but a sickening dread
stole over him, as the two eunuchs raised one of the sacks from the
floor, and bearing it to the window, while its contents writhed and
struggled desperately, hurled it out.
A stifled groan.
A shriek.
A splash.
Jack could hear no more.
He was about to dart out from his hiding-place upon those black-hearted
wretches, when a third person stepped into the chamber.
He said something to the two men--a few sharp words in an authoritative
tone--and they retired.
Jack recognised the voice in an instant.
It was Osmond.
"What is he up to now?" muttered Jack, to himself.
A scene of intense excitement followed.
The Turk unfastened the cord which fastened the neck of the second
sack, and dragged it open.
Then, raising the sack on end, he proceeded hastily to drag it down,
revealing in the dim light the well-remembered form of one of the
Circassian girls.
"Lolo," said Osmond, "I come to give you one last chance."
"I defy and despise you!" said the girl.
"Reflect."
"I have."
"You know well, as I have seen again and again by your looks, that I do
not hate you----"
"Would you have me love the murderer of my sister?"
"Silence, slave!"
"I fear not your menaces," retorted the brave girl; "you must have seen
that. The triumph is yours now--mine is to come."
"When?"
"Hereafter. Murder is against your creed as it is against mine. Do your
worst."
Jack listened.
Osmond seized the girl by the wrist.
But she twisted himself free from his clutch without any particular
effort.
Thereupon the Turk, with a growl of rage, drew his sword, and would
have cut her down.
But Jack could stand no more.
Bounding forward from his hiding-place, he seized the uplifted hand and
wrenched the sword from his grasp.
Then, without a word, Jack struck the man with the flat of his sword
upon the back of the head.
The Turk sank to the ground with a hollow groan.
It was all so momentary that the beautiful Circassian girl looked on as
one in a dream.
Hearing footsteps now, Jack ran to the doorway and peered out.
"Quick!" exclaimed Jack. "Lend me a hand, or we are lost."
She could not understand his words, but his meaning was plain enough.
They pulled the body into the sack as quickly as possible.
Then they hastily tied the cord around the neck of it.
This done, Jack extinguished the lamp.
There was no time to be lost.
He took the girl by the hand, and pulled her back into the nook where
he had been hiding, just as the two villainous eunuchs entered the
chamber.
The two eunuchs came slowly along the corridor.
Finding the place, as they thought, deserted, they simply raised the
sack from the ground, thinking the body of the young Circassian girl
was in it, and bore it to the opening.
One swing and over it went.
As it fell, a hollow groan came from the sack.
The two men stared at each other aghast, and looked over the opening.
But before they could utter a word, a stealthy form had crept up behind
them, and with a vigorous drive, hurled them both over after the sack.
A wild, despairing yell, and the waters closed over these wholesale
butchers.
CHAPTER LXXI.
LOLO'S GRATITUDE AND JACK'S DELIGHT--THE SIGNAL--UNEXPECTED TURN OF
LUCK--A FAMILIAR VOICE--WHO IS IT?--"SURELY! NEVER!"--READ AND LEARN.
"That's a good job done!" said Jack, looking after the wretches he had
pushed over.
The fair Circassian burst into tears now that the peril was over.
Falling upon her knees, she seized Jack's hands and pressed them to her
lips.
She poured out a long string of thanks in the most eloquent language.
Although the language was so far wasted upon Jack, he could not fail to
comprehend her meaning.
"There, there," said Jack, squeezing her hand in reply to her caresses,
"don't take on so, my dear girl. The danger's over now."
But was it?
They had yet to get away.
Jack was no worse off than when in his prison ten feet higher up, it is
true.
But what of Lolo?
How was she to manage?
While he was cogitating over this he heard a shrill whistle from below.
He ran to the window.
"Hist, Jack!" cried a familiar voice from the water.
"Hullo!"
"Drop down, Jack," returned Harry's voice. "Here I am, in a boat, as
snug as a domestic pest in a railway wrapper."
Comic and tragic were so jumbled up in this startling series of
adventures, that Jack scarce knew whether to laugh or to cry.
He did neither.
There was a rope close, handy upon a sack--its destination had
certainly not been to save life--and Jack, with the quickness of
thought itself, fastened it around the Circassian girl's waist.
She understood his meaning, and lent him all the assistance she could.
Once at the window, he fastened it securely, and proceeded to lower it
down.
She looked down the dizzy height, and slightly shuddered.
And then, before trusting herself down, she threw her arms around her
young preserver's neck, and embraced him tenderly.
"Bless you," said Jack, with emotion. "If I only bring you safe through
this, it will be the proudest day in my life."
Now for it.
It was a perilous moment, for the poor girl could not help herself in
any way.
But she was lowered in safety.
"Look out," said Jack, in a good loud whisper; "I'm coming now."
"Look sharp, then," called out Harry. "I smell danger."
"Make haste, dear boy," added a familiar voice.
The sound thrilled Jack strangely.
He was so full of the present adventure and its perils, that he could
not give much thought to the voice now.
Yet it rang on his ears as of old days.
"You're nearly down," said Harry Girdwood. "Drop now, old fellow."
Jack obeyed.
As soon as he reached the boat, he was seized in the arms of the
Circassian girl, Lolo, who hugged him as if she would never part with
him again.
"Now, my love," said that same familiar voice, "when you've done with
that boy, I should like to have one touch at him. What do you say,
Jack, my lad?"
"Heaven above!" ejaculated Jack "Why, it's Mr. Mole."
"Right, dear boy," returned Mr. Mole. "Isaac Mole himself, turned up in
the very nick of time. God bless you, Jack."
"And you, too, sir. How are they all at home? My mother, my----"
"There, there," interrupted Harry; "we'll have the family history when
we're fairly out of musket-shot range. If they find out any thing,
they'll pot us off as easily as shooting for nuts at a fair."
"All right," said Jack, laughingly. "Pull away."
"Pull away, boys."
"Aye, aye, sir."
They had a good boatload, yet they moved through the water pretty
smartly.
* * * *
The vessel which had anchored in the bay, and which showed the British
ensign at her masthead, was the identical ship that our old friend Mr.
Mole had come in.
The messages that they had sent back to the different stations upon
their journey had been successful in guiding Mr. Mole aright, happily
enough.
They had barely cast anchor, when Mr. Mole had been lowered in a boat,
his intention being to come ashore, and get information, if possible,
regarding the object of his cruise.
But little did he think of picking up his information in the water.
Yet such was the case.
When half-way to shore, they came upon Bogey swimming swiftly along.
A few words of hurried explanation sufficed, and the astounded Mole had
the boat pulled flush up beneath the windows of the Konaki, first
rescuing Harry Girdwood and then Lola the Circassian girl, and Jack, as
we have described.
CHAPTER LXXII.
THE PICNIC--FIGGINS AGAIN IN TROUBLE.
After Jack had placed the beautiful girl in safety, he arranged for Mr.
Mole to tell him the news from home.
"Your dear father and mother are in a woeful state about you, Jack,"
said Mole.
"Why?" asked young Jack.
"I don't like beginning with reproaches, my boy," returned Mr. Mole,
"but I must, of course, tell you. Your little extravagances have been
troubling your father a great deal."
"I can throw some light on that subject," replied Jack. "I have been
robbed. Cheques have been stolen from my book, and my signature
forged."
Mr. Mole looked grave.
"Is this the fact?" he asked.
"Of course. However, we need not go further into that just now. Give me
the news. How is Emily?"
"Very well in health, but spirits low--sighing for her Jack," said
Mole, wickedly.
"Did she tell you so?" demanded Jack.
"Not exactly, but I can see as far through a stone wall as most
people."
"Yes, sir, I believe you can," said Jack. "That is about the limit of
your powers of observation."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Mole. "But I know how to comfort Emily, dear
girl. She'll be quite resigned to your prolonged absence when she gets
news of you. I have already written home to explain the odd
circumstances under which I met you--that you were shut up in some dark
room with a lovely Circassian girl, and that you subsequently rescued
her, and how very fond of you the lovely Circassian seems, and----"
"I wish you would only meddle with affairs that concern you, Mr. Mole,"
said Jack, stiffly. "I don't want you to furnish information to any
body about my movements."
"Very good," replied Mr. Mole, "I won't, then. I thought I might send a
second letter, to say that I was quite sure you did not care a fig for
the lovely Circassian."
Jack thought that this might be a desirable move, and so he tried to
square matters a bit.
"Do so, and I will be your friend," he said.
"Consider it done," exclaimed Mole. "I like you as I did, and do, your
father, but I must have my joke."
* * * *
The perilous adventures which our friends had encountered on their
expedition did not deter them from further enterprises.
Only two days after the events just recorded, Jack's party set out on a
picnic excursion, to examine the beauties of the surrounding
neighbourhood.
It was not towards the desert that they directed their steps this time,
but in the opposite direction.
Mr. Figgins, upon this journey, showed his usual talent for getting
into scrapes.
On passing under a group of fine fig-trees, nothing would suit him but
he must stand upon his mule's saddle in order to reach some of the
fruit.
As he was still not high enough to do this, he made a spring up and
caught one of the lower branches, to which he clung.
Suddenly the mule, we know not from what cause, bolted from underneath,
leaving the luckless orphan suspended.
Mr. Figgins soon relinquished the search in his anxiety for his own
safety.
He saw beneath him a descent of some ten feet, and at the bottom a
dense bed of stinging nettles.
How was he to get down?
Dropping was out of the question, for it would be like a leap into
certain torture.
However, Harkaway called out to him to hold on, but not so loudly as
Figgins bawled all the while for help.
Meanwhile, Bogey and Tinker had started after the escaped mule, which
they found some difficulty in capturing.
When it was at length secured, the animal was placed in his former
position under the tree, and firmly held by the two negroes.
"Now let yourself down, Figgins," cried Jack; "drop straight and
steady."
Figgins tried his best to obey.
When he let go the branch, it rebounded with a force that threw him out
of the perpendicular, and instead of landing upon the mule's back, he
fell and landed on the bed of stinging nettles.
The orphan roared lustily--as indeed well he might--for, besides being
shaken by the fall, the pain he soon felt in every portion of his frame
exposed to the nettles was excruciating.
When the party emerged from the forest, a scene of unusual beauty broke
upon their vision.
"This is a charming spot," observed Harkaway.
"And just the thing for a picnic," added Harry. "I vote we halt under
those trees and begin operations."
Hampers were then unpacked, bottles uncorked, and application made to a
pure stream of water which flowed near the spot.
At length all was ready.
Poor orphan, the first mouthful he took seemed to consist of cayenne
pepper.
The cup of water, to which he naturally applied for relief, also
appeared to have been tampered with, for it tasted as salt as the briny
ocean itself.
Next, and also naturally, he drew forth his pockethandkerchief, but ere
he could carry it to his mouth, dropped it in haste and with a cry of
horror, for it contained an enormous frog, which, in its struggles to
escape, fell plump into his plate.
Mr. Mole laughed loudly, whereat Mr. Figgins was naturally offended at
the schoolmaster, and began to suspect that it was he who had been
playing these practical jokes upon him.
Bogey and Tinker, the real promoters of the orphan's discomfiture,
observed this with great inward mirth, but they soon afterwards got
into a little trouble themselves.
Harkaway, turning suddenly round, discovered the two black imps making
sad havoc with the sweets.
"You young scoundrels," shouted Jack, angrily grasping his riding-whip;
"take your fingers off that jam pot immediately."
"I was on'y a-openin' it, sar, ready for de company," exclaimed the
unabashed Tinker.
"What's that you have in your hand, Bogey?" proceeded Harkaway,
alluding to something which the darkey was hiding suspiciously behind
him.
"Only a bit o' bread I brought in my pocket, sar," was the reply.
"Show it us, then, directly, sir."
Bogey accordingly produced a crust from apparently a loaf of the week
before last, but while doing so, Jack's sharp eyes detected that the
nigger dropped some other eatable, in his hurried endeavour to ram it
into his pockets unseen.
"There, our large currant and raspberry tart!" exclaimed Harkaway. "You
artful monkey. I owe you one for this, and I mean to pay you now."
Darting at them, Jack just managed to give Bogey and Tinker a cut each
on the shoulders with his whip as they nimbly scampered off, both
bellowing as though they were being murdered.
But rapid as was the action, Nero saw an opportunity in it whereof he
took advantage, for he pounced upon the well-bitten tart, and bore it
away in triumph.
This episode, however, was soon forgotten, and Mole began to relate
adventures of himself which would have done credit to Baron Munchausen,
while Figgins, not to be outdone, told wonderful stories of high life
in which he had been personally engaged.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
OF THE DEADLY QUARREL AND MORTAL COMBAT BETWEEN MOLE AND FIGGINS.
"One day," began Mr. Figgins, after a pause, "I was driving along
Belgravia Crescent with Lord--bless me! which of 'em was it?"
"Perhaps it was Lord Elpus," suggested Harkaway.
"Or Lord Nozoo?" said Girdwood.
"Are you sure he was a lord at all, Mr. Figgins?" asked Mole,
dubiously.
"Mr. Mole," said the orphan, indignantly; "do you doubt my veracity?"
"Not a bit," answered the schoolmaster, "but I doubt the _voracity_ of
your hearers being sufficient for them to _swallow_ all you are telling
us."
"Well, gentlemen," pursued Figgins, turning from Mole in disgust, "this
Lord Whatshisname used to have behind his carriage about the nicest
little tiger that ever was seen----"
"Nothing like the tiger I saw in Bengal one day, I'm sure," broke in
Mr. Mole, in a loud and positive tone. "Come, Figgins, I'll bet you ten
to one on it."
The orphan rose to his feet in great indignation.
"Isaac Mole, Esq., I have borne patiently with injuries almost too
great for mortal man throughout this day. I consider myself insulted by
you, and I will have satisfaction."
"Well, old boy, if you just mention what will satisfy you, I'll see,"
said Mole.
"Nothing short of a full and complete apology."
"You don't get that out of me," the schoolmaster scornfully retorted.
"Preposterous. What I, Isaac Mole, who took the degree of B. A. at the
almost infantine age of thirty-four, to apologise to one who is----"
"Who is what, sir?" demanded Figgins.
"Never mind. I don't want to use unbecoming expressions," said Mole.
"You wouldn't like to hear what I was going to say."
The orphan was so angry at this that, unheeding what he was doing, he
drank off nearly a tumblerful of strong sherry at once.
This, coming on the top of other libations, made the whole scene dance
before his bewildered eyes.
He began to see two Moles, and shook his fist, as he thought, upon both
of them at once.
"I d--don't care for either of you," he exclaimed, fiercely.
"Either of us? For me, I suppose you mean?" said the tutor.
"Which are you?" asked Figgins.
"Which are who?" retorted Mole.
"Why, there are two of you, and I wa--want to know which is the right
one," said Figgins.
"I'm the right one. I always am right," said Mole, aggressively. "You
don't dare to imply I'm wrong, do you?"
"Won't say what I imply," answered Figgins, with dignity; "but I know
you to be only a----"
"Stop, stop, gentlemen," cried Jack. "Let not discord interrupt the
harmony of the festive occasion. Mr. Mole, please tone down the
violence of your language. Mr. Figgins, calm your agitation, and give
us a song."
"A song?" interrupted Mr. Mole, taking the request to himself. "Oh,
with pleasure."
And he struck up one of his favourite bacchanalian chants--
"Jolly nose, Jolly nose, Jolly nose!
The bright rubies that garnish thy tip
Are all sprung from the mines of Canary,
Are all sprung----"
"There's no doubt upon their being all sprung anyhow," whispered
Harkaway to Girdwood. "Stop, stop, Mr. Mole," he cried at this
juncture. "It was Mr. Figgins, not you, that we called upon for a
song."
"Was it?" said the schoolmaster. "Very good; beg pardon. Only thought
you'd prefer somebody who could sing. Figgins can't."
Figgins again looked at Mole, as if he were about to fly at him.
But the cry of "A song, a song by Mr. Figgins!" drowned his
remonstrances.
"Really do'no what to sing, ladies and gen'l'men," protested Figgins.
"Stop a minute. I used to know 'My Harp and Flute.'"
"You mean 'My Heart and Lute,' I suppose?" said Jack.
"Yes, that's it. And I should remember the air, if I hadn't forgotten
the words. Let's see. Stop a minute, head's rather queer. Try the water
cure."
Whereupon Mr. Figgins staggered to the adjacent brook, and, kneeling
down, fairly dipped his head into it.
After having wiped himself with a dinner napkin he rejoined the party,
very much refreshed.
"Tell you what, friends, I'll give you a solo on the flute," he said.
"Something lively; 'Dead March in Saul' with variations."
And without mere ado, he took up his favourite instrument, and prepared
to astonish the company.
If Mr. Figgins did not succeed in astonishing the company, he at least
considerably astonished himself, for when he placed the flute to his
lips and gave a vigorous preliminary blow, not only did he fail to
elicit any musical sound, but he smothered and half-blinded himself
with a dense cloud of flour, with which the tube had been entirely
filled.
Bogey and Tinker, as usual, had been the real authors of this new
atrocity, but Figgins felt convinced that the guilt lay at the door of
Mole, on whom he turned for vengeance.
"Villain!" he cried, "this is another of your tricks; it's the last
straw. I'll bear it no longer; take that."
As Mr. Figgins spoke, he struck the venerable Mole a sounding whack
over the bald part of the cranium with the instrument of harmony.
Mole sprang upon his legs with astonishing alacrity, and, seizing
Figgins by the throat, commenced shaking him.
A ferocious struggle ensued, among the remonstrances of the spectators,
but, before they could interfere, it ended by both combatants coming
down heavily and at their full length on the temporary dinner-table,
and thereby breaking not a few plates, bottles, and glasses.
Helped to rise and seated on separate camp-stools, some distance apart,
the two former friends, but now mortal foes, as soon as they could get
their breath, sat fiercely shaking fists and hurling strong adjectives
at each other.
"I'll have it out of you, you old villain!" cried Mole.
"And I'll have it out of you, you old rascal!" shrieked Figgins.
"We'll both have it out," added the tutor, "and the sooner the better.
Name your place and your weapons."
"Here," answered Figgins, pointing to an open space before him, "and my
weapon is the sword."
"And mine's the pistol," said Mole. "I'll fight with that, and you with
your sword."
"Agreed," said the excited Figgins, quite forgetting the
impracticability of such an arrangement and the disadvantages it would
give him.
Figgins had a battered sabre of the light curved, Turkish make, and
Mole rejoiced in the possession of a very old-fashioned pistol.
Mole gave the latter to Girdwood, who volunteered to be his second, and
who took care to put nothing in more dangerous than gunpowder.
"Now we're about to see a duel upon a quite original principle," cried
Jack to his friends. "I don't think either of them can hurt the other
much. I'll be your second, Figgins, my boy."
"All right. I take up my position here," cried the orphan, stationing
himself under a tree near the brook.
"I shall stand here," said Mole, stopping at about half a dozen paces
from him.
The orphan looked as though he intended to bolt behind the tree if Mole
fired.
"Well, Master Harry, don't be in a hurry," said Figgins. "I am not
quite ready, are you, Mr. Mole?"
"Oh yes," said Mole, "I am ready."
He fully intended to blow the orphan's head off the first fire.
"I'll give the signal to fire," said Harry. "Now, are you ready; one,
two, three!"
Mole's pistol-shot reverberated through the copse, but, as, a matter of
course, it did not the slightest harm to Figgins, who, however, thought
he heard it strike against the sabre which he held in a position of
guard.
It now began, for the first time, to strike the orphan that this novel
mode of fighting was very awkward for himself, for how was he to get at
his enemy?
At first he poised his sword as if about to fling it at him, then moved
by a sudden impulse he rushed forward, with a cry of vengeance, and
began attacking Mole furiously with some heavy cutting blows.
Mole, as his only resource, dodged about and caught some of these blows
upon his pistol, but judging this risky work, he took up his stick and
used it in desperate self-defence; thus dodging and parrying, he
retreated while Figgins advanced.
Once Mole managed to get what an Irishman would call "a fair offer" at
Figgins' skull, which accordingly resounded with the blow of his
weapon.
Half stunned, the orphan plunged madly forward and took a far-reaching
aim at the old tutor.
He, in his turn, dodged again, but his wooden legs not being so nimble
as real ones, he stumbled over some tall, thick grass, and fell
backwards into the stream.
Jack, thinking matters had gone far enough, caught the orphan's foot in
a rope, and bent him so far forward that he overbalanced himself and
fell on top of Mole, and both tumbled into the water together.
The alarm was given, and they were both drawn out, "wet as drowned
rats," but not quite so far gone.
They were, however, entirely sobered by their immersion.
A small glass of brandy, however, was administered to each, to prevent
them catching cold, and some of their garments were taken off to dry in
the sun.
Mole, the tutor, and Figgins, the orphan, wearied out with their
exertions, soon fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
A TREMENDOUS RISE FOR MR. MOLE.
The quarrel between the two had been so far made up, that when they
awoke from their _siesta_, and the fumes of the alcohol had subsided,
neither of them seemed to remember any thing about the matter.
The party got safely home without encountering either robbers, snakes,
wolves, thunderstorms, or any other dangerous being or foes whatever.
The next day, however, commenced for Mr. Mole an adventure which at the
outset promised to form an exciting page in his life.
He was walking through the streets and bazaars of the town, Jack on one
side of him, Harry on the other, though the reader, at first glance,
would probably not have recognised any of them.
Harkaway and Girdwood presented the appearance of Ottoman civilians
belonging to the "Young Turkey" party, whilst the venerable tutor
stalked along in full fig as a magnificent robed and turbaned Turk of
the old school.
It had become quite a mania with Isaac to turn himself as far as he
possibly could into a Moslem.
He had taken quite naturally to the Turkish tobacco, and the national
mode of smoking it through a chibouque, or water-pipe.
But in outward appearance Mr. Mole had certainly succeeded in turning
Turk, more especially as he had fixed on a large false grey beard,
which matched beautifully with his green and gold turban.
He had again mounted his cork legs, and encased his cork feet with
splendid-fitting patent leather boots, and Mole felt happy.
"They take me for a pasha of three tails, don't you think so?" he
delightedly asked his companions.
"Half a dozen tails at least, I should say," returned Jack, "and of
course they take us for a couple of your confidential attendants."
"In that case, I must walk before you, and adopt a proud demeanour, to
show my superiority," said Mole.
So whilst Jack and Harry dropped humbly in the rear, he strode forward
with a haughty stiffness of dignity, which his two cork legs rather
enhanced than otherwise.
"Holloa!" exclaimed Harry, suddenly; "who's this black chap coming up
to us, bowing and scraping like a mandarin?"
He alluded to a tall dark man, apparently of the Arab race, but dressed
in the full costume of a Turkish officer, who, dismounting his horse,
approached Mole with the most elaborate Oriental obeisances, and held
out to him a folded parchment.
Mole took the document with a stiff bow, opened it and found it to be a
missive in Turkish, which, notwithstanding his studies in that
direction, he could not for the world make out.
[Illustration: "MOLE TOOK THE DOCUMENT, AND OPENED IT."--TINKER.
VOL. II.]
But unembarrassed by this, he turned to Harry Girdwood, and making a
gesture, indicating his own inability to read it without his
spectacles, motioned him to do so for him.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Harry, in amazement. "It is the imperial seal
of the Sultan. Mole, old man, you have been mistaken for a pasha."
"Is it possible?" cried Mole; "but what does it say?"
"Imperial Palace, Stamboul.
"In the name of Allah and the Prophet.
"To his Excellency Moley Pasha.
"This is to certify that, in consequence of the lamented death of
Youssouf Bey, Pasha of Alla-hissar, I am commanded by our sublime
master to appoint and instal you into the said government of the
city and province of Alla-hissar. Therefore you are commanded at
once to proceed thither, under an escort which will be in readiness
at the door of your hotel at five o'clock in the morning, after you
receive this. Given at the Sublime Porte by Ali Hussein Pasha,
Grand Vizier to His Imperial Majesty the Padishah."
* * * *
Mr. Mole turned pale with anxiety.
"This is very serious," he exclaimed; "but I fully expect to become a
king before I die, but in this case, what shall I do?"
"Why, become a pasha," said Jack; "it will be worth your while. We'll
give you our assistance."
"But how am I to answer the messenger?" asked Mole.
"No necessity to answer him; make signs that you obey the sultan's
mandate; you know how they do it."
Mole accordingly folded the firman again, placed it to his forehead,
and then to his heart, bowing all the time with the most profound
respect.
The messenger evidently quite understood, for he bowed too, and rode
away rapidly.
"That's what you call having greatness thrust upon you, eh, Mole?" said
Jack.
"I don't much care about it," answered the tutor. "I don't believe I
shall be able to carry out the character of a pasha. It's a dangerous
game."
"Nonsense," said our hero; "if they choose to make a mistake, it's
their lookout."
"I shall find it a mistake when I come to be bowstringed, or hanged, or
shot, or something of that kind," said the tutor; "but, Jack, my dear
boy, I depend upon you to pull me through."
"No fear," answered Jack; "you're a great man, Mr. Mole, and no doubt
the authorities, becoming aware of your merits, have really made choice
of you as the governor of the pashalik."
"But they must know that I'm not a Turk," objected Mole.
"That doesn't matter," said Jack; "not only Turks, but Greeks,
Americans, Italians, French, all sorts of people are in power in this
country."
The excitement of the moment and the influence of some spirituous
liquid he had taken before starting, so far bewildered Mr. Mole's
intellect, that he actually accepted Jack's explanation.
"Hang it, I will be pasha," he cried; "and risk all. Haven't I got the
sultan's own firman?" and he flourished that important document round
his head in the most defiant manner.
"That's right," said Jack; "keep up that spirit, and you'll make your
fortune. Remember, first thing to-morrow you are to be conducted to
your seat of government; the guard of honour will be at the door of
your hotel at five o'clock, you will reach Alla-hissar about ten, and
to-morrow morning you'll begin your public duties."
"What will your father say, Jack, when he hears of this? But I hope you
won't desert me, my dear boys," said Mole, imploringly.
"We'll go with you," answered Harry.
"Rather!" acquiesced Jack. "We'll never leave you, old boy."
The remainder of the day was spent by Mole in the further study of
Turkish.
These exertions were fatiguing, and Mr. Mole was tired when he retired,
as he expressed it.
He was not long falling asleep, and dreams of glory, power, and
magnificence filled his slumbers.
He was just dreaming he had been elected sultan when he was suddenly
and rudely awakened by a terrible knocking at the door.
Mole started up, and was told that he must prepare in a great hurry,
for the escort had already arrived.
The tutor, still half asleep, looked out of the window, and in the day
dawn he discerned a small body of horsemen at the door of the hotel.
Mole felt that he could never get into those elaborate Turkish robes
without assistance; luckily at this juncture young Jack put in an
opportune appearance, and offered to help him.
"You'll have to make haste, pasha," said our hero; "strikes me you've
rather overslept yourself. Where is your beard?"
"Here it is," returned Mole; "but why didn't some of you wake me
before? I was so busy dreaming that I was sultan, and--that's right, my
boy, help me on with the cork legs and boots, that's the worst
difficulty, and then all these things, and lastly the turban and
beard."
"I'll get Harry to help me," pursued Jack; "you'll have proper
attendants when you are installed in the palace. Remember what we
agreed upon last night; we are to pass off as your two sons, under the
names of Yakoob and Haroun Pasha."
"Just so," said Mole; "but I expected a larger escort than those half a
dozen men there. I would not go through this, my boy, if I thought
future history would not give me a glorious page."
"Oh, don't fear, sir, this will be something grand for you; at the gate
of the town you will be met by a regular guard of honour."
With the combined assistance of Jack and Harry, Mole was fully invested
with his Oriental robes, with which he stumped downstairs as gracefully
as a moving bundle of clothes.
His escort consisted of six spahis, most of them black, and headed by
the messenger of the day before.
"Jack, my dear boy," said Mole, "at last my time has arrived to become
a great man in the eyes of the world."
"Right you are, sir," replied Jack. "On you go, my noble pasha."
As soon as Mole was mounted, the chief spahi gave the word, and the
imposing cavalcade set off at a quick trot.
In two hours they had arrived at the primitive and sequestered town of
Alla-hissar.
CHAPTER LXXV.
THE GREAT MOLEY MOLE PASHA.
Such an important event as the arrival of a new governor naturally
caused a great deal of excitement among the worthy inhabitants of the
remote town.
They came out in crowds to greet him, headed by all the inferior
functionaries, and a military guard of honour conducted him to the old
castle, which had been fitted up as a sumptuous official residence.
Two things puzzled his new subjects; the fact of his arrival being two
days before the appointed time, and the circumstance of the new pasha,
who was apparently a Turk, returning their greetings through an
interpreter.
However, none had any doubt of the reality of his appointment, and the
production of the sultan's firman at once made the old cadi, or
magistrate, who had been temporarily put in command, give way to his
superior.
Briefly let us explain these circumstances.
It was another hoax, and a most daring and gigantic one, on the part of
Jack and his friends, upon their long-suffering tutor.
Having ascertained that the town of Alla-hissar was actually waiting
for its new governor, the real pasha, who was to arrive from
Constantinople in two days' time, Jack and the others hit upon the idea
of making the situation the basis of a grand practical joke.
The _firman_ was of course a forged document, written by the old
interpreter, who was in the plot, and the Turkish officer who had
presented it to Mole was no other than our friend the diver.
The waiter, the orphan, and the two nigger boys had also effectually
disguised themselves, and became members of Mole's escort.
A skilful combination enabled them to carry out the details of their
plan with such success as to deceive not only Mole himself, but the
simple pastoral folks of Alla-hissar itself.
Moley Pasha, as he now styled himself, was in all his glory.
"This is a proud day," he observed to Jack, as he gazed round on the
handsome residence provided for him. "Little did I imagine that old
Isaac would ever live to come out in all the glories of an Oriental
magnate. Jack, we must let your dear father know of this."
"We will, sir; but now let us congratulate you," answered our hero.
"The more especially as you've promoted us to such high positions."
Moley, the pasha, now retired to his private apartments to rest until
the hour arrived for his first council.
During this time, he was coached up by the old interpreter, and by his
aid, Moley Pasha found himself able to receive the reports and
congratulations of subordinates in the government, and to try several
cases brought before him.
After three hours of arduous public duties, the pasha and his friends
retired to his private apartments, which were fitted up with every
Oriental luxury.
"By Jove!--I mean by the Prophet!" exclaimed the new potentate, "I am
getting on like a house on fire; but I am still mortal, and need
refreshment, not having had anything to speak of to-day, beyond a cup
of coffee with a dash of brandy in it."
Dinner being served up (in the Turkish style) the pasha grew still more
enthusiastic.
"Yes, this is a delightful life," he said; "it only wants the presence
of lovely woman to render it perfect. Now, if Mrs. Mole Number One or
Number Two or Three were here----"
"Oh, I forgot," suddenly broke in Jack, looking very serious. "That
reminds me, there was one most important subject I had to speak to you
about. The late pasha had thirteen wives."
"How awful," exclaimed Mole. "But what is that to do with me?"
"A good deal; they are now left, by his sudden death, desolate widows,
and it is expected that you, as his sucessor, should take them under
your protection. They go with the premises, like the stock and fixtures
of a business."
"Heaven above! you don't mean that?" exclaimed Moley Pasha, becoming
much agitated, and pausing ere he quaffed a goblet of champagne, which
he drank under the name of sparkling French sherbet.
"It's quite true, though, isn't it, Abdullah?" turning to the dragoman.
"It's true as the Koran, itself," returned Jack. "Every pasha of
Alla-hissar must have thirteen wives."
"Good heaven! what'll Mrs. Mole say?" exclaimed Mole, in great
agitation; "hang it, you know, this will never do--Isaac Mole with
thirteen wives. I always thought I was very much married already, quite
as much as I want to be."
"Unless your excellency agrees," continued the interpreter, "I won't
answer for the consequences."
"I have had three wives already, and now you wish me to take thirteen.
I'd sooner resign my government at once," exclaimed Mole.
"Impossible!" returned the dragoman; "it is death to resist the
sultan's firman."
"Powers above! what a situation am I in!" exclaimed Mole, in increasing
dismay. "I find it's not all roses after all, being a pasha; but
thorns, stinging nettles, and torturing brambles. But about these
thirteen widows, Abdullah? Who and where are they, and what are they
like?"
"They are at present in a house not far off from here," was the reply;
"five of them, it seems, have been the widows of the pasha before last,
and they are rather old; six belonged only to Youssouf Pasha, and are
middle-aged."
Mr. Mole responded with a deep groan.
"The other two," proceeded Abdullah, "are fair Circassians in the very
summer of youth and beauty."
Moley Pasha uttered a profound sigh.
"Ah, that's much better."
"I expect they will be here soon, at least some of them," said
Abdullah, the interpreter.
The subject then dropped for a time, and the great Moley also
dropped--asleep, from the combined effects of the pipe, the coffee, and
the wine.
He was suddenly awakened by Abdullah shouting in his ear--
"May it please your excellency, they've come."
"Who--who?" gasped Mole, in fearful terror; for he had just been
dreaming of the rack and the bowstring.
"The noble Ladies Alme and Hannifar, widows of the late lamented
Youssouf-Pasha," was the reply.
"Gracious mercy!" exclaimed the persecuted Mole; "they've come to claim
me, perhaps to bear me off by main force."
"Ho, there, guards; stand round; not without a struggle will Isaac Mole
surrender his liberty as a single man, that is as a married man, but
not--Heaven, my brain is growing utterly confused in this terrible
position. Where's that boy Jack?"
"Their excellencies Yakoob and Haroun Pasha are both gone out," was the
response.
"Then, Abdullah, I command you to stand up in my defence. Come here."
The old interpreter approached with a low bow.
"Write on two pieces of card the words--'Admire Moley Pasha, but touch
not him.'"
"In Turkish?"
"Turkish and English, too."
"Pasha, to hear is to obey."
At this moment a young negro attendant announced--
"The Ladies Alme and Hannifar are impatient to be admitted to your
sublime presence."
"Let them wait; it will do them good," cried Mole, desperately. "Have
you written it, Abdullah?"
"One moment, your highness," was the reply. "There," he added,
finishing up with an elaborate flourish; "all will understand that. And
now what am I to do with them?"
"Fasten one notice on my back, and the other on my chest," answered
Mole, "so that the ladies may understand and keep at a respectful
distance. That's right. Be still, my trembling heart. Now you can admit
them."
The negro drew aside the curtains of the chamber, and two female forms
of majestic height and proportions, in gorgeous Oriental costumes, but
closely veiled, entered.
They made a very graceful salute to the pasha, and were walking
straight up to him, when he sprang backwards, and leaping upon a high
sofa, turned his back to them, not in contempt, but in order that they
might read the Turkish inscription thereon inscribed.
Then he turned and pointed to it on his breast in English.
Far, however, from being struck with awe and covered with confusion,
the ladies were highly amused and laughed consumedly.
"What are they smiling at?" asked Mole, somewhat indignantly.
"Only at the felicitous ingenuity of your highness's idea," answered
the interpreter, pointing to the placard.
"Well, I hope they understand, and will abide by it," said Mole,
venturing to step off the sofa.
But the moment he did so, the foremost, who, he understood was the Lady
Alme, and was certainly of an impulsive disposition, sprang forward as
if to embrace Mole.
"Save me!" he cried. "To the rescue, guards, attendants, Jack, Harry.
Where can they have got to? Help, help! Mrs. Mole, come to the rescue
of your poor Mole."
The old interpreter, with some dexterity, flung himself between them,
just in the nick of time to avert from Mole the fair Circassian's
effusive greeting.
"'Tis our Eastern custom," explained the dragoman. "Her ladyship is
only expressing her delight at beholding her new lord and master."
"Tell them I am nothing of the kind, and I have got a wife in England,"
answered the pasha.
Abdullah did so, whereupon the ladies set up a series of piercing
shrieks and lamentations.
"What in the world's the matter with them?" asked Mole, greatly
dismayed.
"They are desolated at the thought of having incurred your sublimity's
displeasure."
"Tell them that they had no business to come unless I sent for them,"
said Mole.
"They say, O magnificent pasha, that, hearing of your arrival, they
have come thither in the name of themselves, and the other eleven
ladies of his late highness's harem, to know when it will be your
princely pleasure to bid them cast aside the sombre weeds of widowhood,
and----"
"There, cut it short, dragoman; do you mean that they really expect me
to marry the whole lot of them?"
"Precisely so, your eminence; even now the most reverend imaum of the
town is ready to perform the ceremonial."
"He'll have to wait a long time if he waits for that," cried Mole;
"thirteen wives, indeed, and these you say are the youngest of the lot.
I suppose they have no objection to allow me to behold the moonshine of
their resplendent features. That's the way to put it, I believe, old
man."
Abdullah answered--
"It is against Turkish etiquette to unveil before the solemn ceremony
has been performed; nevertheless, their ladyships consent to remove one
of their veils, through which you may behold their features."
Alme and Hannifar accordingly threw back their outer black veils, and
appeared with the white ones underneath.
Mole scrutinized them as well as he could, but he took very good care
not to go too near.
"And so, Abdullah, you tell me that these two are the youngest of the
whole lot?"
"Indeed, they are, your eminence; famous beauties of pure Circassian
descent; each originally cost five thousand piastres, and they surpass
the remainder even as the mighty sun doth the twinkling stars."
"Then all I can say is," returned Mole, "that I shudder to think what
the eleven others must be like. Just tell the ladies Alme and Hannifar
that, as far as I can see, from here, I don't think much of them."
"I will put your message more mildly."
And having spoken to the ladies again, he said--
"Their ladyships are enchanted to find so much favour in the eyes of
your excellency."
"Thirteen wives," mused Mole, scarcely heeding the last reply. "It is
preposterous--though nothing it seems, compared to some of the Turkish
grandees. But fancy old Isaac Mole--ha, ha! really it's quite amusing.
Why, the mere marrying so many would be a hard day's work, Abdullah."
"The ceremony would be slightly wearisome, your highness."
"Yes, but I should require thirteen wedding rings--ha, ha, ha!--the
idea of thirteen wedding rings being used at once, and by one man."
"Don't let that be any objection," said Abdullah; "for the ladies tell
me they have come provided with exactly the number of rings requisite
for the purpose."
Sure enough, Alme detached from her fair neck an elastic band, whereon
were strung thirteen bright gold rings.
Mole was fairly staggered by this determined preparation on the part of
the irresistible enslavers.
"They mean to have me," he gasped. "I see how it is; they come here
with the intention of dragging me to the late pasha's mansion, and
marrying me by main force."
"It looks like it," answered the interpreter, "for I find that they
have brought with them a dozen of the harem-guard, fully armed."
"Then I am indeed lost," cried Mole. "But no, I'll die game. Here,
help, guards, soldiers, fly to the rescue of your pasha. Oh! Mrs. Mole,
where are you now? Your poor Mole is in danger."
As Mole uttered the piteous lament we have recorded, both ladies made a
combined charge at him, with a wild shriek and a sudden outburst in
Turkish, which might have been either a chorus of endearments or of
reproaches.
Alme got behind him and flung her arms around his neck with such vigour
that he was nearly strangled, Hannifar attacking him in the same way
from the front.
In the pressure of this combined assault he was powerless; struggle as
he would, he could not detach himself from their overwhelming embrace.
His cries for help were smothered.
His turban was knocked over his eyes.
He could feel the placards being torn from him, and himself being
hauled hither and thither by the ladies who seemed fighting for the
sole possession of him.
At length, by a gigantic effort, he freed himself and raised a cry of
alarm that might have aroused the dead, but in that effort, he stumbled
and fell on his back over a pile of sofa cushions.
Roused by his cries, the military and body guard of the pashalik rushed
in, and the whole house was in an uproar.
When Mole had been again uplifted to his feet, and was gasping forth
confused explanations, he perceived that the Ladies Alme and Hannifar
had mysteriously levanted.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
THE SUDDEN RUIN AND UTTER DOWNFALL OF THE GREAT MOLEY PASHA.
The ladies' absence was a great relief to Mole. He devoutly hoped that
he had for ever got rid of the thirteen widows of his late lamented
predecessor.
About an hour afterwards, when Mole was striving to calm his irritated
feelings with a cup of coffee and hookah, Jack and Harry arrived, as
they said, from a walk round the neighbouring country, looking as
innocent as any of the lambs they may have met on the finely-grassed
hills.
This innocent look was remarkable, because, as the reader has probably
suspected, they had really been concerned in Mr. Mole's recent
adventure.
In short, Jack had been the Alme, and Harry the Hannifar, of the
domestic scene we have described, the Turkish dress and the ladies'
custom of keeping veiled, immensely assisting them in the imposture.
"Whatever has been the matter here?" asked Jack. "As we were coming
along, we heard a dreadful row outside, and saw a large body of troops
bolting off in a deuce of a hurry."
"Oh, my sons," replied the pasha, in a tone of paternal pathos, "sore
hath been the wretchedness and distress of your afflicted parent. I
wish you had been here, then it could not have happened. I'll tell you
all about it."
Jack and Harry Girdwood had sufficient self-command to listen with
unmoved countenances to Mr. Mole's account of the adventure, and even
to express great surprise and alarm at the harrowing details.
"Shall I write home to Mrs. Mole for you, sir?" said Jack.
"For the Lord's sake, no," cried Mole, in dismay.
Then they tried their best to frighten the old tutor, by suggesting
various deadly schemes of vengeance, which it was very possible the
ladies of his late highness's seraglio might form against Moley Pasha.
"You must never go out without a strong body guard," said Jack, "for at
any time they may have you seized and borne off to the harem."
"And you'll have to take care of yourself even at home," added Harry,
"especially with regard to the food you eat, for in Turkey, those who
owe a grudge think nothing of paying it out in poison."
"Gracious Heaven! don't talk in that way," cried Mole. "you quite make
my blood run cold. I think--I hope--I can trust my guards and my new
attendants."
"I hope so too," replied Jack, shaking his head in grave doubt. "But
you must always bear in mind that treachery is one of the commonest
vices of the East; you can't be too careful."
"Oh, Allah, Allah!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, who had slipped naturally into
a habit of using Turkish interjections; "what a life it is to be a
pasha. I used to think it was all glory and happiness, but now I find,
to my grief, that--if this sort of thing goes on, I shall bolt."
It being now far advanced in the evening, the pasha, wearied out with
the cares and excitements of the day, retired to rest in the Turkish
fashion, half-dressed, and upon a kind of sofa.
His cork legs, of course, were carefully taken off first.
In this Jack and Harry assisted him.
Moley Pasha went to sleep and to dream of bowstrings, scimitars, and
various painful forms of execution.
The next morning, however, he arose more hopeful, and fully resolved to
show himself a vigorous and successful ruler.
In his sumptuous seat in the divan, or hall of audience, Mole began to
feel like a monarch on his throne, and signed his decrees with all the
triumphant flourish of a Napoleon.
It was in the height of this power and glory that there arose a sudden
consternation in court.
Murmurs arose, shouts, mingled with the tramp of many steeds, were
heard outside.
"What's the matter?" asked the pasha. "Who dares to make a disturbance
and disturb the pasha? Officer, command silence."
A deadly stillness fell upon the assembly.
For some few moments one might have heard a pin drop.
But distant shouts in the streets, and the tramp of horses recommenced.
The interpreter and Harry and Jack, who stood on each side of the
pasha, exchanged meaning glances, which partook much of alarm.
Consternation could be perceived on every face in court.
It was evident that something serious was about to occur.
"Whatever is the meaning of this?" cried the pasha, who himself seemed
to feel no suspicion and alarm. "Abdullah, go and see what it means."
The old interpreter at once hurried to the door.
Jack and Harry, as if impelled by resistless curiosity, followed him.
Karam, the chief of the guard, did the same, and many of those about
the court followed in a now excited and expectant group.
At this moment, the shouts outside grew louder and fiercer.
An angry consultation, in which half a dozen at least were engaged, all
talking at once, could be heard, and then Karam, the chief of the
guard, came rushing back with a face full of dismay.
"Your highness----" he gasped.
"Well, Karam, what's the matter?" asked Mole.
"A grand officer, who calls himself Moley Pasha, the same name as your
excellency, is outside with a body of troops, and insists upon
admission."
Mole started from his seat, and almost immediately sank exhausted with
fright and horror.
He saw now the peril in which he stood, and devoutly wished he were
safe at home, and in the arms of Mrs. Mole.
"A--pasha--calling himself Moley!" he exclaimed. "What does he want?"
"He declares he has been appointed to this government by the firman of
his imperial majesty the sultan, and that you--you--pardon, your
highness--are an impostor."
Mole now knew the worst.
It was all up with him.
But desperation inspired him with an artificial courage; he resolved to
die game, and keep it up to the last.
"Tell the so-called Moley Pasha," he exclaimed, "that he is the
impostor. Here, guards, stand round me, and defend your rightful
governor."
The soldiers wavered.
They began to fear that all was not quite right.
Karam, the captain, also hesitated in enforc
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