"Come to a stop," he echoed; "is it possible that you wish to stop my flute? Why, I thought you liked music."
"So I do," Jack replied, drily, "when it is music."
"And isn't my flute music? Are not its tones soft and sweet and soothing to the spirits?"
"We have found them quite the reverse," Jack assured him; "in fact, if you don't put away your flute, you'll drive us both mad, and then I wouldn't like to answer for the consequences—which might be awful."
Mr. Figgins looked aghast.
"The idea of such exquisite music as my instrument discourses driving anyone mad," he exclaimed at length, "is past belief."
"You may call it exquisite music, but we call it an awful row," Jack replied, candidly, "therefore have the goodness to shut up."
The orphan drew himself up and clutched his flute in a kind of convulsive indignation.
"I object to shutting up, Mr. Harkaway," he exclaimed, determinately; "in fact, I will not shut up. In this dulcet instrument I have found a balm for all my woes, and I intend to play it incessantly for the rest of my existence."
"You'll blow yourself into a consumption," said Harry Girdwood.