"But you're driving me to distraction."
"Nonsense; go to bed and sleep—tooty-tum, tooty-tum, tooty-too. You will like the beautiful flute in time."
"But I can't sleep with that infernal tooty-too in any ears, and I've got the toothache."
"Have it out. You'll feel better."
This cool irony on the part of Mr. Figgins was like oil poured upon the fierce temper of the irascible Bosja, and he shouted loudly—
"If I hear any more of that diabolical 'tootum-too,' I swear by Allah I'll take your life, and give your body to the crows and vultures."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the reckless Figgins. "Tooty-tum, tooty-tum, too-tum—"
But before he could finish his musical phrase, the maddened Bosja had seized his scimitar, and rushed like a bull at the partition.
The partition was thin, the Turk was burly and thick, and he plunged through head first into the orphan's apartment, to the no little surprise and dismay of the latter.
It was quite a picture.