With these words, he stepped back into the garden and slammed the gate in Mr. Figgins' face.
"I shall never get over this," Figgins murmured to himself, gloomily; "that flute would have cheered my solitary hours, and that ruthless Turk refuses to part with it. Now, indeed, I feel my peace of mind is gone forever."
His grief at this juncture became so overpowering, that he leant against the door, and in his despair hammered it with his head.
Suddenly the door burst open, and the distressed orphan, in all his brilliant array, shot backwards into some shrubs of a prickly nature, whose sharp thorns added to his agonizing sensations.
"Will anybody be kind enough to put an end to my misery?" he wailed, as he lay on his back, feeling as though he had been transformed into a human pincushion.
He was not a little surprised to hear a familiar voice exclaim—
"Lor' bless me! dat you, Massa Figgins?"
Glancing up, he espied the black face of Bogey looking down upon him.
"Yes, it's me," he answered, in a wailing tone; "help me up."
"Gib me you fist," cried Bogey.