"Yer see dat lady settin' on de gate-post? Well, dat's me steady. I'll
interjuce yer in a minute."

The lady in question was a thin, dirty white cat with bold eyes and a
brazen bearing, and Omar Ben was doubtful of her caste.

"Thank you," he murmured non-committally, and hurried on; but the
meeting was unavoidable, for the lady crossed the street and stood
directly in his path.

"Hi, Mame!" said Pete, in cordial greeting. "Shake hands wid me friend,
Mr.--er--aw hell! Shake hands wid bo!"

Omar Ben had never seen a lady-cat, and his ideal of the sex was
something modest and retiring. Miss Mame was not retiring. She greeted
her friend's friend without the courtesy of a "Mr.," looked in open
admiration at the handsome gentleman, and asked if he were single.

The aristocrat murmured a commonplace and edged away. At the slight the
lady took umbrage, spat warningly, and showed her claws, till Ringtail
averted trouble by a generous display of tact.

"Now, don't git phony, Mame!" he remarked in a gentle whisper. "De gent's
all right, but he's young, dat's all, an' I'm goin' to learn him--see?
You chase aroun' fer Lizzie, an' if de goil ain't got no udder date, yet
kin meet us here 'bout moondown, an' we'll bring yer a brace er frawgs.
So long, Mame! Remember dat I loves yer!"

With a partly mollified sniff, the lady retired to her gate-post, and the