rubs 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.

He thought he saw a chance of doing a profitable bit of business on his
own account.

So, after an instant, he said quietly--

"Good flute worth more dan ten pounds; rale good blower like dat worth
twenty at de bery least."

"Yes, yes; I'd give twenty willingly," murmured the wrapt Figgins.

"Bery good," said Bogey, as he instantly disappeared through the gate.

The orphan remained waiting without.

The "too-too-tooing" was going on in the usual doleful and melancholy
manner, and guided by the sound, Bogey crept forward till he came in
sight of the performer, who was seated in a snug nook in his garden
playing away to his heart's content; or, as the negro supposed,
endeavouring to frighten away the birds.

Bogey took stock of the stout player and his flute.

Creeping along the shrubbery till he had got exactly opposite to the
flautist, he, in the midst of the too-too-tooing, uttered an unearthly
groan.

"Inshallah!" exclaimed the Turk, stopping suddenly; "what was that?"

"It war me," groaned the hidden Bogey more deeply than before.

"Who are you?" faltered the musician, hearing the mysterious voice, but
seeing no one.

"Me am special messenger from de Prophet," Bogey replied.

"Allah Kerim! my dream is coming true. Is it the Prophet speaks?"
gasped the Turk, his olive cheeks turning the hue of saffron.

"Iss, it de profit brings me here," returned Bogey, truthfully.

"What message does he send to his slave?" asked the old Turk.

"He say you make sich orful row wid dat flute he can git no sleep, an',
derefore, he send me to stop it. You got to gib up de flute direckly."

The teeth of the half-silly musician were chattering in his head.

His optics rolled wildly from side to side.

Just at