Bosja waved his weapon over his head; Mark Antony Figgins hopped upon the bed and wrapped himself tightly round in the clothes, clutching his flute to his side.
For a moment the pair stood glaring at each other.
"Your flute, vile dog, or your life," shouted the Turk.
"I object to part with either," cried the orphan. "Go and have your tooth out, and be happy."
Down came the scimitar with a swish in the direction of his head.
But the grocer had quickly withdrawn it beneath the clothes.
Not to be thwarted, however, in his vengeance, the burly Bosja swooped down upon the heap, and dragged them up in his grasp, the orphan included.
"Now I have you," he cried, as he seized the obnoxious flute.
"Give me my instrument, infidel," shrieked the orphan, as he threw off the blanket, and clung to the flute with desperation.
At the same moment, he recognised the green and yellow-striped turban on the head of the Turk.