The Persian cat said nothing. Ringtail Pete was obviously an undesirable
acquaintance; therefore Omar Ben held his tongue, and became interested
in the bullfrog. Curiosity, however, conquered refined reserve.
"What is it?" he asked presently.
"Frawg," said the street cat, with laconic candor, as he gracefully
mauled the subject of discussion. "I gets 'em over to the frawg-pawnd up
back of Lumkins's tannery. Have a piece?"
"Thank you, no," returned the Persian, with a faint smile of his own.
"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.
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