"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But the grocer had quickly withdrawn it beneath the clothes.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.



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 a 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.