"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 a.s.sured 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 gla.s.s 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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, a.s.sembled 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 s.h.i.tan 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.