And now the orphan stood trembling outside the door of the saloon.
"In you go, Mr. Figgins," whispered Captain Deering.
"One moment."
"Nonsense."
"Just a word."
"Bah!" said the captain, with a grin; "you aren't going to have a tooth out. In with you."
He opened the door, gave the timorous orphan a vigorous drive behind, and Mr. Figgins stood in the august presence.
The pasha was seated—it would be irreverent to say squatted, which would better express it—upon a cushion that was, as Paddy says, hanging up on the floor.
His excellency was in that peculiar, not to say painful attitude, which less agile mortals find unattainable, but which appears to mean true rest to Turk or tailor.
The pasha rejoiced in a beard of enormous dimensions, a grizzled dirt-coloured beard that almost touched the cushion upon which he sat.