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 Shitan have you got in the next room?" he demanded of her, fiercely.