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.