"I've just had luncheon."

Pete shrugged his gaunt shoulders, murdered the frog, and prepared to
dispose of it permanently. Omar Ben edged closer. In spite of his polite
refusal, the frog fascinated him. Never in all his benighted life had he
tasted one morsel which had not been prepared for him on dainty china;
but now it was different. Across the geranium-bed came a strange,
alluring scent--a scent which roused the memory of inheritance--a memory
well-nigh washed out of him, and his sire before him, by the bottle-pap
of luxury. A memory it was of wild things, to be killed--a blood-lust
memory--and now at last it woke in a pampered, velvet-hearted cat.

Ringtail Pete was conscious of the other's wistful look, and laughed; for
his battle with life had taught him generosity.

"Say, bo, yer don't want to do de bashful--see?--'cause me 'n' you is
gents what understands de game er chanst. Here--take holt an' chaw
yerse'f off a hunk!"

The aristocrat hesitated, then slid down one rung on the ladder of
degradation--pushed by blood-lust and by the strange compelling
_camaraderie_ of an arab of the streets. It was wrong, he knew, but then
there was a certain flavor in this wrong; so, gingerly, he crossed the
geranium-bed, took one web foot firmly between his teeth, and wondered at
the thrill of life that sparked and snapped along his spine. Then Pete
and Omar Ben tugged and tugged, till the clean geranium-bed was a
comfortable, wholesome wreck.

"Hully gee!" grinned Ringtail Pete. "We otter make a wish!"