Jack Harkaways Boy Tinker Among The Turks | Page 4

of a man is the pasha?" said the orphan, thinking of Jack's
statement.
"Oh, a decent fellow enough, unless he's riled," was the reply.
"Do you speak the language?" said the orphan.
"Like a native."
"Is he as much married as they say?" demanded Mr. Figgins.
The captain smiled.

"His excellency has a weakness that way; but," he added, in a warning
voice, "you must not make any allusion to that."
"I won't see him," said Mr. Figgins. "I don't intend to visit him."
"But I have come to fetch you to pay your respects."
"Where?"
"Here, on board, in the state saloon."
"But----"
"Make haste, Mr. Figgins," interrupted Captain Deering. "It is no joke
to make a pasha wait. Look alive. I'll come and fetch you in five
minutes. Up you get."
And then Captain Deering departed.
Mr. Figgins was sorely perplexed now.
But he arose and began to dress himself as quickly as possible.
"After all," he said to himself, "it is just as well. I should certainly like
to see the pasha, and this is a bit of luck, for there's no danger here at
any rate, if what that young Harkaway said was true."
He went to the cabin door and shouted out for Tinker.
"Tinker!"
"He's engaged," answered Captain Deering, who was close by.
"I want him."
"He's away, attending his excellency in the saloon," returned Captain
Deering.
"Bogey then."

"Bogey's there too."
"Never mind."
"Are you nearly ready?"
"Yes"
"Look sharp. I wouldn't have his excellency put out of temper for the
world; it would be sure to result in the bowstringing of a few of his
poor devils of slaves when he got ashore again, and you wouldn't care
to have that on your conscience."
Mr. Figgins very hurriedly completed his toilet.
"What a fiend this wretched old bigamist must be," he said to himself.
"I'm precious glad that young Harkaway warned me, after all. I might
have got into some trouble if I had gone ashore without knowing this."
"Stop," said the captain. "Have you any thing to take his excellency as
a present?"
This made the orphan feel somewhat nervous.
It tended to confirm what young Jack had said.
"It is, then, the custom to make presents?" he said.
"Yes."
"What shall I give?"
"Any thing. That's a very nice watch you wear."
"Must I give that?"
"Yes. His excellency is sure to present you with a much richer
one--that's Turkish etiquette."

This again corroborated Jack's words.
Yet it was a far more pleasant way of putting it than Jack had thought
fit to do.
Mr. Figgins only objected to a present of wives.
Any thing rich in the way of jewellery was quite another matter.
"On entering the presence, you have only to prostrate yourself three
times; the third time you work it so that you just touch his excellency's
toe with your lips."
"I hope his excellency's boots will be clean."
"His excellency would not insult you by letting you kiss his boot. No
boot or stocking does he wear."
Mr. Figgins made an awfully wry face at this.
"Ugh! I don't like the idea of kissing a naked toe."
"You'll soon get used to it," said the captain, cheerfully, "when you've
kissed as many pashas' toes as I have. Hold your tongue--here we are."
He pushed open the saloon door and ushered Mr. Figgins into the
presence of his excellency.
CHAPTER LXI.
MORE ABOUT CHIVEY AND HIS MASTER--THE FATAL PIT--IS
IT THE END?--ARTFUL CHIVEY AND THE ARTFULLER
NOTARY--DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND--HOW THE TIGER
PREPARED TO SPRING--HERBERT MURRAY IN DANGER.
Before we proceed to describe the orphan's presentation to that arch
polygamist, the Turkish pasha, and the remarkable result of that
interview, we must look around and see if we are not neglecting any of
the characters whose eventful careers we have undertaken to chronicle.

We are losing sight of one at least, who has a very decided claim upon
our attention.
This person is none other than Herbert Murray.
The reader will not have forgotten under what circumstances we parted
company with this unscrupulous son of an unscrupulous father.
Goaded to desperation by his villainous servant, Herbert Murray turned
upon the traitor and hurled him down the gravel pit.
Then the assassin walked away from the scene.
But ere he had got far, his steps were arrested by the sound of a groan.
A groan that came from the gravel pit.
"Was it my fancy?"
No.
Surely not.
There it was again.
A low moan--a wail of anguish.
Back he went, muttering to himself--
"Not dead?"
He went round nearly to the bottom of the pit, and peered over.
There was Chivey leaning upon his elbow groaning with the severity of
his bruises, and the dreadful shock he had received.
"You've done for