"Whar dat orful squeakin' row?" he asked.
"Hush, hush!" exclaimed the orphan, holding up his hands reprovingly, and turning up his eyes at the same time; "it's heavenly music; it's a flute, my boyhood's favourite instrument."
"Gorra!" muttered Bogey; "it 'nuff to gib a fellar de mullingrubs all down him back and up him belly."
He looked towards Mr. Figgins, and seeing him standing with his hands clasped looking like a white-washed Turk in a trance, he said—
"What de matter wid yer, Massa Figgins? Am you ill?"
"That flute, that melodious flute, that breathes forth dulcet notes of peace," murmured the orphan, in a deep, absorbed whisper. "I must have that flute."
Bogey felt a little anxious.
"Me t'ink Massa Figgins getting lilly soft in him nut; him losing him hair turn him mad," he said to himself.
"I must have that flute," repeated the grocer, in the same abstracted tone and manner. "I should think it cheap at ten pounds."
Bogey, on hearing this, opened his eyes very wide.