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.

"Your servant will not disturb the minutest pimple," said the barber.

With wonderful celerity, the artist went to work.

In less than two minutes the cranium of Mark Antony Figgins was as
smooth and destitute of hair as a bladder of lard.

Then followed the process of shampooing, which was very soothing to the
orphan's feelings.

At length, the operation being completed, the barber bade the orphan
put on his hat--which from the loss of his hair went over his eyes and
rested on his nose--and left the shop.

His friends--the mob and the dogs--had waited for him outside very
patiently.

If his appearance had been interesting before, their interest was now
greatly increased.

A loud shout welcomed him, and he proceeded along the street under
difficulties, holding his hat in one hand, with the crowd at his heels.

Straight to the bazaar he went.

Here he found a venerable old Turkish Jew, who seemed to divine by
instinct what he wanted.

"Closhe, shignor, closhe," he cried in broken English. "Shtep in and
take your choice."

Before the bewildered orphan knew where he was, he found himself in the
interior of Ibrahim's emporium.

Here a profusion of garments were displayed before his eyes.

Having no preference for any particular colour, he took what the Jew
pressed upon him.

In a short time his costume was complete, consisting of a pair of ample
white trousers, and a blue shirt, surmounted by a crimson vest, secured
at the waist by a purple sash, and on his feet a pair of yellow
slippers of Morocco leather.

The turban alone was wanting.

"Be sure and let me have a good big turban," urged Mr. Figgins.

Ibrahim assured him that he should have one as big as he could carry,
and he kept his word.

Unrolling a great many yards of stuff, he formed a turban of enormous
dimensions of green and yellow stripe, which he placed upon the head of
his customer.

"Shall I do? Do I look like a native Turk?" asked the latter, after he
had put on his things.

"Do?" echoed the Jew, exultingly. "If it ish true dat de closhe makes
de man, you vill do excellent vell, and de people vill not now run
after you."

Mr. Figgins having settled his account with the Hebrew clothier, and
paid just three times as much as he ought to have