Let us turn now, good reader, to a scene more congenial—namely, the garden in front of the British consul’s country residence.

 

One evening, two weeks after the event just narrated, Ted Flaggan and Rais Ali chanced to meet at the gate.

 

“Ye’ve got stirrin’ times of it here intirely. Mister Ally Babby,” said the tar, whose familiarity almost verged on impudence; “what betwane you an’ the 40,000 thieves—more or less—in the town, I find it rare entertainment.”

 

“Yoos complimentary dis marnin’,” returned the interpreter, with a smile.

 

“It’s always the way with me. I howld that purliteness is chape.—Ye’ve heard the noos, I s’pose?”

 

“W’at noos?” demanded Ali.

 

“W’y, the noos that the war betwane this Raigincy of Algiers an’ Tunis is goin’ on raither favourable, and that forty mules were brought in this morning loaded with human heads.”

 

“Oh yes, I heers dat,” replied Ali carelessly, as he filled his pipe from Flaggan’s tobacco-pouch. “I sees all de hids as I comes up de road dis marnin’. Twinty more mule hims ’xpec’ for come in de morrer mornin’.”

 

“You don’t mane it!” said Ted. “They seem to be free of their heads away at Tunis.—But there’s more noos than that,” continued the seaman, calmly scanning the seaward horizon, as he filled his pipe. “Have ’ee heard that the Dey Omar has cut off the head of Sidi Hassan for nothin’ worse than a touch of imperliteness?”

 

“No, I not heers dat,” answered Ali, with a look of interest. “I’s werry glad.”

 

“Glad! why so?”

 

“’Cos Sidi Hassan hims gib me reason to ’xpec’ hims cut off my hid soonerer or laterer.”

 

“It’s my opinion,” said Flaggan, with a peculiar smile, “that if ye go cutting away at one another like that, soonerer or laterer you’ll all be like the converse o’ the Kilkenny cats, and have nothin’ left of ’ee but your heads stickin’ on spikes above your gates and walls.”

 

“Pr’aps so,” was Ali’s complacent reply.

 

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Angela and her sister Paulina, who carried in her arms the little Angelina. Following them at some distance came the amiable Zubby, bearing aloft on her shoulder—as being the place of greatest safety—Colonel Langley’s youngest hope. Master Jim’s back-bone had not at that time attained sufficient stiffness to warrant the position, but Zubby never thought of that; and Master Jim consequently complained in a series of yells and wry faces; but Zubby, being ignorant of the state of his feelings, did not mind that. Master Jim soon became purple in the visage, but Zubby, looking up at him, and supposing the effect to be the result of an unusual flow of spirits, rather enjoyed that than otherwise.

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