A stout gentleman—unmistakably a Turk—with a crimson cap on his head, ornamented with a tassel, and a long, reed-like instrument in his hand, was looking cautiously forth.
It was evidently the musician, who, having been interrupted in his solo, had come to see who the delinquent was that had disturbed him.
The enthusiastic Figgins had caught sight of the flute, and that was sufficient.
Forgetting his usual nervous timidity, he rushed forward.
"My dear sir," he exclaimed, "it was exquisite—delicious! Pray oblige me with another tune—or, if you have no objection, let me attempt one."
As he spoke, the excited Figgins stretched forth both his hands.
The owner of the flute, who evidently suspected an attempt at robbery, quietly placed his instrument behind him, and looking hard at Figgins, said sternly—
"What son of a dog art thou?"
To which Figgins replied mildly—
"You're mistaken, my dear sir; I'm the son of my father and mother, but they—alas!—are no more, and I am now only a poor desolate orphan."