Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks Part 47

Mole instantly produced the unlucky doc.u.ment.

The real Moley Pasha instantly compared it with his own.

"An impudent forgery!" he exclaimed, turning to the cadi of the town, who had now arrived, and was much amazed and dismayed at what had occurred.

"Pardon me, I entreat, your excellency," said the old cadi. "I trust you will let this accusation go no further. In any case, my a.s.sociates in office were quite as much to blame."

"'Twas this Frankish magician who has befooled us with his spells,"

said several of the town officials.

And they pointed at Mole with fierce and vengeful gestures, which made him feel certain that his life would be sacrificed to their vengeance.

"I doubt whether it was witchcraft or mere folly," said the pasha, who was much more enlightened than most of his audience. "It seems to me that this giaour is very probably the dupe of others. But, in any case, he must not go unpunished. Prisoner, your crime is proved, and I sentence you to----"

He paused.

Mole fell on his knees.

"To a week's imprisonment in the first place, which will allow time for further inquiries to be made, and, if necessary, to communicate and receive our sublime Master's commands on the matter. Till then you will be kept in solitary confinement, on bread and water, and closely guarded."

"Mercy!" Mole found tongue to exclaim. "I trust--I implore that your highness will at least spare my wretched life, for I declare----"

"Away with him," interrupted the pasha.

So the unhappy Mole was taken off in chains to his dungeon, bread and water, and horrible antic.i.p.ations of his ultimate fate.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

MOLE IN "THE DEEPEST DUNGEON"--HOPES OF RESCUE.

The unfortunate Isaac Mole was now reduced to a position unprecedented even in his varied career.

He was placed in the "deepest dungeon" of the old castle, which was used as the town gaol, in a cold stone cell all to himself, and a couple of fierce-looking bas.h.i.+-bazouks to watch him.

Bread and water--both of the stalest--const.i.tuted poor Mole's only fare, and his lodging was literally "on the cold, cold ground."

The constant fear of a terrible doom haunted him.

It was the third night of his incarceration, and about the middle of the night Mole was kept awake by his own depressing thoughts, together with the gambols of the rats that infested the dungeon.

Suddenly the deadly stillness was broken by a sound outside, which much agitated him.

"Ha, what sound is that?" cried Mole; "yes, oh, joy, it is the sound of a flute."

Could he mistake that note?

Who could make such melancholy strains but the desolate orphan--the melodious Figgins?

Had Figgins, forgetting all past differences and animosities, come to soothe Mole's captivity, in this manner, or--horrible thought!--was it a strain of malice or revengeful triumph that emanated from the long-suffering and tortured instrument.

But the flute did not long continue playing, and Mole conjectured that it was only a signal to which he was expected to respond.

He had no mode whatever of doing so, excepting a melancholy whistle, which, however, served its purpose.

Through the bars of the prison, which were far too high up for him to reach, a small object suddenly came cras.h.i.+ng, and very narrowly did it escape falling upon the prisoner's nose.

Reaching out his hand in the dark, Mr. Mole picked it up, and found it to be a stone wrapped in paper.

He knew at once that it must be a written message from his friends outside, and again he whistled as a signal that he had received it.

A few triumphant notes on the flute responded to this, and then all was silent again.

How impatient Mole was for daylight, that he might read the letter.

But it was many hours to that yet, and sleep he found impossible.

At length, a faint streak came through the bars of the gloomy dungeon.

Mole, with some difficulty, dragged himself under this light, straightened out the paper, and read thus--

"ISAAC MOLE, ESQUIRE,--You are not forgotten by your friends, who much lament your misfortune. We very narrowly escaped being caught and served in the same way. We have, through Captain Deering, got hold of the British consul, to whom we have represented the affair to be only a practical joke, not deserving of a severe punishment.

So we hope to get you off with a fine, which we will undertake to pay, whatever it may be. Therefore, keep up your p.e.c.k.e.r, old man, and believe us to be

"Yours, truly as ever,

"JACK AND FRIENDS."

"Cool, after the way they've served me," was the tutor's mental comment upon this message; "but the question is, Can the British consul, or any other man, get me out of the clutches of these ferocious Turks?"

The next night, Mole was able to sleep.

But his sleep was suddenly and fearfully interrupted.

An awful and confused noise, shouting outside, flas.h.i.+ng lights through the bars, the clash of arms and the hurried tramp of men, indicated that the prison was the scene of some warlike commotion.

Mole started up in a state of great alarm, and struggled towards the door of his cell.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" cried poor Mole, "this is dreadful. Oh, if I was only a boy again. I would stick to Old England, and never leave it.

There, they are at it again. Oh, dear, why did I leave Mrs. Mole?"

The noise was as if there were a mutiny or outbreak of some kind.

Nearer and nearer came the sound of footsteps, louder and louder sounded the clas.h.i.+ng of arms, and the clanking of chains.