"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.