"It's a Turkish flute, I suppose," he sobbed; "but it's very beau-u-u-tiful. I wish I had a flute."
He got up and looked round, and found himself outside an enclosure of thick trees.
It was evidently within this enclosure the flute player was located.
As the reader knows, there was nothing bold or daring about Mark Antony Figgins.
But now the flute seemed to have inspired him with a kind of supernatural recklessness.
"I'd give almost any thing for that flute," he murmured to himself. "I feel that I should like to play the flute. I wonder who it is playing it, and whether he'd sell it?"
The unseen performer, at this juncture, burst forth into such a powerfully shrill cadence that the orphan was quite thrilled with delight.
"A railway whistle's a fool to it!" he cried, as he clapped his hands in ecstasy. "Bravo, bravo! Encore!"
Having shouted his applause till he was hoarse, he walked along by the side of the wall, seeking anxiously for some place of entrance.
At length he came to an open gate.