Then, one day, from the vulgar outer world came an unclean incident.
Omar Ben became conscious of an uproar beyond the garden wall. It embraced a whimper of canine hope, a spitting taunt, and the patter of flying paws; then, suddenly, on the top of the high brick wall appeared a cat. The newcomer paused an instant to fling an obscene au revoir at the raging, disappointed dog, dropped carelessly down into a geranium-bed, and took his bearings.
He was not a patrician. Omar Ben eyed him in a sort of wondering awe. The stranger was a long-barreled, rumple-furred, devil-clawed street arab, of a caste—or no-caste—that battles for existence with the world—and beats it. On his tail were rings of missing fur, suggesting former attachments, not of lady friends, but of tin cans and strings. For further assets, he possessed one eye and a twisted smile. His present total liability lay in the dog beyond the wall, so the arab wasn't so badly fixed, after all. Besides, he owned property. It consisted of a bullfrog which he carried in his mouth, with its legs and web feet protruding in wriggly, but unavailing, protest.
To breathe the better, the street cat dropped his frog and set one mangy paw upon it; then, suddenly, he spied the Persian.
"Hello, bo!" he observed cheerfully. "Didn't see yer. Did yer pipe me chase wid de yelper? Dat stilt-legged son of a saw-toothed tyke has had his nose on me rudder-post fer more'n a mile."
The Persian made no answer, and the arab continued, unabashed:
"It's a hunch dat I could 'a' clawed de stuffin's outer him, but I didn't want fer to lose me lunch. Say! Wot's yer name?"
Omar Ben regarded the interloper with the same glance of refined surprise that the master might have employed when a fleeced plebeian entered his office, demanding to know why the market had slumped in direct contradiction to confidential prophecy. He elevated his patrician brows, but gave the desired information politely:
"My ribbon-name is Omar Ben Sufi, first-born of the second litter of Yiki Zootra and Sultana Yaggi Kiz. Here at home, however, I am known by a variety of others, such as Mon Prince de Manière Charmante, Sugar-pie-precious, and—"
"Aw, cut it!" snapped the street cat disgustedly. "Dem ain't no decent names! D'ey's positive ridick'lous! Mine's Ringtail Pete, but me frien's has reasons fer fergittin' de tail part of it when dey names me to me face—see?"