"Very well, then, that's settled; I'll turn Turk at once. But must I have my head shaved?"
"That's important," said Jack.
Having made up his mind on that point, the orphan at once put on his hat, and taking a sip of brandy to compose his nerves, he sallied forth, directing his steps to the nearest barber's.
On his way thither he attracted the usual amount of attention, and when he reached the barber's shop, he found himself accompanied by a select crowd of deriding Turks, and a dozen or so of yelping curs, shouting and barking in concert.
The barber received him with the extreme of Eastern courtesy.
"What does the English signor require at the hands of the humblest of his slaves?" was the deferential inquiry.
"I have a fancy to turn Turk, and I want my head shaved," explained Mr. Figgins, nervously; "pray be careful, since I'm only a poor orphan, who——"
Before he had time to finish his sentence, he found himself wedged into a chair with a towel under his chin.
The next moment his head, under the energetic manipulation of the operator, was a creamy mass of lather.
"Be sure and don't cut my head off," murmured the orphan, as he watched the razor flashing to and fro along the strop.