The landlady, having delivered her message, went downstairs.
Mr. Figgins still continued to blow away and the agonized Bosja to mutter curses not loud, but deep, upon his head and his instrument.
But patience has its limits, and Bosja, never remarkable for that virtue, having sworn all the oaths he knew twice over, at last sprang from his bed, and dashing down his pipe, rapped fiercely at the wall.
"What do you want? Shall I come and play a few tunes to you?" inquired the orphan, placidly pausing for an instant.
"You vile son of perdition, stop that accursed noise!" shouted the Turk.
"Too-too, tooty-too."
"Do you hear, unbelieving dog?"
"Tooty-too—yes, I hear—tooty-tooty-tooty-too."
"Then why don't you stop?"
"Because I intend to go on—too-tum-too—all night"