"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 Maniere 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?"
He smiled his twisted smile, raised one paw, and regarded its claws with
a sort of humorous pride.
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