Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks Part 40

Bogey and Tinker, the real promoters of the orphan's discomfiture, observed this with great inward mirth, but they soon afterwards got into a little trouble themselves.

Harkaway, turning suddenly round, discovered the two black imps making sad havoc with the sweets.

"You young scoundrels," shouted Jack, angrily grasping his riding-whip; "take your fingers off that jam pot immediately."

"I was on'y a-openin' it, sar, ready for de company," exclaimed the unabashed Tinker.

"What's that you have in your hand, Bogey?" proceeded Harkaway, alluding to something which the darkey was hiding suspiciously behind him.

"Only a bit o' bread I brought in my pocket, sar," was the reply.

"Show it us, then, directly, sir."

Bogey accordingly produced a crust from apparently a loaf of the week before last, but while doing so, Jack's sharp eyes detected that the n.i.g.g.e.r dropped some other eatable, in his hurried endeavour to ram it into his pockets unseen.

"There, our large currant and raspberry tart!" exclaimed Harkaway. "You artful monkey. I owe you one for this, and I mean to pay you now."

Darting at them, Jack just managed to give Bogey and Tinker a cut each on the shoulders with his whip as they nimbly scampered off, both bellowing as though they were being murdered.

But rapid as was the action, Nero saw an opportunity in it whereof he took advantage, for he pounced upon the well-bitten tart, and bore it away in triumph.

This episode, however, was soon forgotten, and Mole began to relate adventures of himself which would have done credit to Baron Munchausen, while Figgins, not to be outdone, told wonderful stories of high life in which he had been personally engaged.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

OF THE DEADLY QUARREL AND MORTAL COMBAT BETWEEN MOLE AND FIGGINS.

"One day," began Mr. Figgins, after a pause, "I was driving along Belgravia Crescent with Lord--bless me! which of 'em was it?"

"Perhaps it was Lord Elpus," suggested Harkaway.

"Or Lord Nozoo?" said Girdwood.

"Are you sure he was a lord at all, Mr. Figgins?" asked Mole, dubiously.

"Mr. Mole," said the orphan, indignantly; "do you doubt my veracity?"

"Not a bit," answered the schoolmaster, "but I doubt the _voracity_ of your hearers being sufficient for them to _swallow_ all you are telling us."

"Well, gentlemen," pursued Figgins, turning from Mole in disgust, "this Lord Whats.h.i.+sname used to have behind his carriage about the nicest little tiger that ever was seen----"

"Nothing like the tiger I saw in Bengal one day, I'm sure," broke in Mr. Mole, in a loud and positive tone. "Come, Figgins, I'll bet you ten to one on it."

The orphan rose to his feet in great indignation.

"Isaac Mole, Esq., I have borne patiently with injuries almost too great for mortal man throughout this day. I consider myself insulted by you, and I will have satisfaction."

"Well, old boy, if you just mention what will satisfy you, I'll see,"

said Mole.

"Nothing short of a full and complete apology."

"You don't get that out of me," the schoolmaster scornfully retorted.

"Preposterous. What I, Isaac Mole, who took the degree of B. A. at the almost infantine age of thirty-four, to apologise to one who is----"

"Who is what, sir?" demanded Figgins.

"Never mind. I don't want to use unbecoming expressions," said Mole.

"You wouldn't like to hear what I was going to say."

The orphan was so angry at this that, unheeding what he was doing, he drank off nearly a tumblerful of strong sherry at once.

This, coming on the top of other libations, made the whole scene dance before his bewildered eyes.

He began to see two Moles, and shook his fist, as he thought, upon both of them at once.

"I d--don't care for either of you," he exclaimed, fiercely.

"Either of us? For me, I suppose you mean?" said the tutor.

"Which are you?" asked Figgins.

"Which are who?" retorted Mole.

"Why, there are two of you, and I wa--want to know which is the right one," said Figgins.

"I'm the right one. I always am right," said Mole, aggressively. "You don't dare to imply I'm wrong, do you?"

"Won't say what I imply," answered Figgins, with dignity; "but I know you to be only a----"

"Stop, stop, gentlemen," cried Jack. "Let not discord interrupt the harmony of the festive occasion. Mr. Mole, please tone down the violence of your language. Mr. Figgins, calm your agitation, and give us a song."

"A song?" interrupted Mr. Mole, taking the request to himself. "Oh, with pleasure."

And he struck up one of his favourite baccha.n.a.lian chants--

"Jolly nose, Jolly nose, Jolly nose!

The bright rubies that garnish thy tip Are all sprung from the mines of Canary, Are all sprung----"

"There's no doubt upon their being all sprung anyhow," whispered Harkaway to Girdwood. "Stop, stop, Mr. Mole," he cried at this juncture. "It was Mr. Figgins, not you, that we called upon for a song."

"Was it?" said the schoolmaster. "Very good; beg pardon. Only thought you'd prefer somebody who could sing. Figgins can't."

Figgins again looked at Mole, as if he were about to fly at him.