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?"