From a mass of incoherence the
officials learned that some evil-hearted ruffian had entered the
thirty-thousand-dollar garden and had stolen a priceless cat.
Thus the outer world went hunting. So great was its zeal--so great was
the offer of reward--that it captured every cat in town, with the one
exception, of course, of Omar Ben Sufi. This particular hero was found
next morning, asleep, in the geranium-bed; so they bore him in, while
weepings burst forth afresh. And well they might.
Poor Omar Ben was a sight to awaken pity, even in the stoniest of hearts.
The number of his hairs could be counted, almost, by plus and minus
tufts; one eye was closed; his splendid tail was bent in several angles
unrecognized by the rules of art, and he smelled of the outer
world--horribly.
His mistress expressed her grief in a noiseless, refined whimper of
despair; the French maid shrieked, and called on Heaven to witness the
devastation of her every hope; but the master--who had lived, in spite of
his Wall Street training--laughed.
"Nonsense!" said he. "You are squandering your sympathies upon a
shameless prodigal. The beast has had the time of his life, by George!"
"Oh, Charles, how _can_ you?" wailed the mistress of the priceless cat.
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