Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks - Bracebridge Hemyng (10 ebook reader .txt) 📗

instinctively the orphan knew that he had to decide between the scimitar and the quintet of wives—wall-flowers of the pasha's harem.

Silently, in mute horror, the orphan was about to submit to the least of the two evils, and choose a wife.

Then he awoke suddenly.

What an immense relief it was to find it only a dream after all.

"I don't quite believe that young Harkaway," said the orphan, dubiously; "he is such a dreadful practical joker. But I won't go on shore, nevertheless. It's not very interesting to see these savages, after all; they really are nothing more than savages."

And after a long and tedious time spent in endeavouring to get to sleep again, he dropped off.

But only to dream again about getting very much married.

He slept far into the morning, for his dreams had disturbed him much, and he was tired out.

When he awoke, there was someone knocking at his cabin door.

"Come in."

"It's only me, Mr. Figgins," said a familiar voice.

"Come in, captain."

Captain Deering entered.

"Not up yet, Mr. Figgins?" he said, in surprise. "We've got visitors aboard already."

"Dear me."

"Distinguished visitors. The pasha and his suite."

"You don't say so?" exclaimed the orphan, sitting up.

"Fact, sir," returned the captain. "It must be ten years since I last had the honour of an interview with his excellency."

"You know him, then, Captain Deering?"

"Rather. Been here often. Know every inch of the country," said the captain.

"What sort 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 me, now," he moaned, as he caught sight of his master.

"No; but I shall," retorted the assassin.

And he took a deliberate aim with the pistol.

"I expected this," said Chivey, faintly; "but remember murder is a hanging matter."

"I shall escape," retorted Murray, coldly.

"But you can't," said Chivey, with a grin of triumph, even as he groaned.

There was something in his manner which made Murray uneasy.

"Twenty-four hours after I'm missing," gasped Chivey, "your forgery will be in the hands of the police; they can get you back for forgery, and while you're in the dock of the Old Bailey, if not before, to stand your trial for forgery, they will have a clue to my murder."

His words caused Murray a singular thrill.

"What do you mean by that, traitor?" he demanded.

"Mean? Why, I know you too well to trust you. I tell you I have taken every possible precaution," retorted Chivey, "so that you are safe only while I live. I know my man too well not to take every precaution. Now," he added, sinking back exhausted, "now, my young sweet and pleasant, fire away."

Murray paused, and concealed his pistol.

Was it true about these precautions?

Chivey was vindictive as he was cunning.

He had shown this in every action.

"Supposing I spare you?" said Murray.

"You can't," retorted the tiger; "I'm done for."

"So much the better."

"So you say now," returned Chivey, his voice growing fainter and fainter. "Wait and remember my words—I'll be revenged."

He gasped for breath.

Then all was still.

Was he dead?

Murray trembled with fear at the thought.

The words of the revengeful tiger rang in his ear.

And he strode away.

Silent and moody as befits one bearing the brand of Cain.

Chivey was far from being as badly hurt as he at first appeared.

He had no bones broken, his worst injuries being a few bruises and a very unpleasant shaking.

But Chivey was artful.

He thought it best to keep quiet until Herbert Murray should be gone.

Chivey struggled up on to his knees.

Then he began to crawl along the sand pit.

Progress was difficult at first.

But he persevered and got along in time.

"If these bruises would only let me think how further to act," he muttered to himself, as groaning, he crawled back to the town.

"Señor Velasquez," he said to himself, as a happy thought crossed him. "Señor Velasquez is my man for a million."

He paused to think over the ways and means, and a cunning smile deepened on his face, as he gradually made up his mind.

"The worst of this is that I must have a confederate," muttered the young schemer.

"No matter, there is only one way out of it, and I must make the best of it."

Señor Velasquez was an obscure notary.

Chivey had made a chatting acquaintance with the notary in the town, the Spaniard speaking English with tolerable proficiency.

"What is the nature of the secret you hold in terrorem over your master?" demanded the notary, when Chivey at length reached his office.

Chivey smiled.

"I said it was a secret, Mr. Velasquez," he answered.

"But if you seek my advice about that," the notary made reply, "I must know all the particulars of the case."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"Why?"

"How can I advise if you keep me in the dark?"

Chivey leered at the Spanish notary and grinned.

"Don't you try and come the old soldier over me, please," he said.

"Old soldier?" said Señor Velasquez, in surprise.

"Yes."

"What is 'old soldier?' What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, sir, the artful."

"Is this English?" exclaimed the notary.

"Rather."

"Well, I confess I do not understand it."

"Then," said Chivey, getting quite cheerful as he warmed into the matter, "I think your English education has been very seriously neglected, that's what I think."

"Possibly," said the Spaniard. "I only learnt your tongue as a student, and am not well grounded in slang."

"More's the pity."

There was a spice of contempt in Chivey's tone which appeared rather to aggravate Señor Velasquez.

"You are too clever, Mr. Chivey," said he, "far too clever. Now you want to keep your secret, and I shall guess that your secret concerns——"

He paused.

"Who?" asked Chivey.

"The young man whose letters you employed me to intercept."

The tiger looked alarmed.

"I mean the young Señor Jack Harkaway."

Chivey looked about him rather anxiously.

"Don't be so imprudent, Señor Velasquez," he said. "You are a precious dangerous party to have any thing to do with."

"Not I," returned Señor Velasquez; "I am easily dealt with. But those who would deal with me must not be too cunning."

"You don't find nothing of that sort about me," said Chivey.

"What is it you require of me?" demanded the notary, getting vexed.

"He's a proud old cove," thought the tiger.

So he drew in his horns and met the notary half way.

"You are just right, Mr. Velasquez," he remarked. "It does concern Jack Harkaway."

"I knew that."

"Now I want you to give me your promise not to tell what I am going to say to you, nor to make any use of it without my express permission."

"I promise. Now proceed, for I am pressed for time."

"I will," said the tiger, resolutely.

The notary produced paper and writing materials.

"My master, Mr. Murray, has attempted my life," began Chivey, "and this is because I am possessed of certain secrets."

"I see."

"He is at the present moment under the idea that he has killed me. Now what I want is, to make him thoroughly understand that he does not get out of his difficulty by getting me out of the way, not by any manner of means at all."

"I see."

"How will you do it?"

"I will go and see him."

Chivey jumped at the idea immediately.

"Yes, sir, that's the sort; there's no letters then to tell tales against us."

"None."

"Get one from him, though, if you can," said Chivey, eagerly; "something compromising him yet deeper, like."

"I will do it," said Señor Velasquez. "And what will you pay for it? Give it a price."

"Thirty pounds," returned Chivey, in a feverish state of anxiety.

"I'll do it," returned the notary, with great coolness.

CHAPTER LXII.

HOW SEÑOR VELASQUEZ PLAYED A DEEP GAME WITH CHIVEY—DOUBLE DEALING—HERBERT MURRAY'S CHANCE—"HARKAWAY MUST BE PUT AWAY"—A GUILTY COMPACT—CHIVEY IN DURANCE VILE—THE SICK ROOM AND THE OPIATE—AN OVERDOSE—THE NOTARY'S GUARDIAN—THE SPANISH GAROTTE—"TALKING IN YOUR SLEEP IS A VERY BAD GAME."

Señor Velasquez was any thing but a fool.

Chivey was not soft, but he was not