A cat story.
wealth or art, Ash-Can Sam existed for a finish fight alone. At the present speaking he came swaggering around a corner, and paused in astonishment at the sight of a stranger sitting in the middle of the street. The insolence of it! It was past belief!
"Oh, please, Mr. Bo!" wailed Lizzie, wringing her paws as she perched upon the roof. "Do hurry while youse has got de chanst! He'll rip you somethin' terrible! For my sake, dearie, won't you slope?"
"No, not upon your life!" called Omar Ben gravely. "I will not demean myself by retreating from any cat alive."
This statement was fat with brave audacity, but lean in the matter of discretion; so Pete leaned down with one last friendly whisper of appeal:
"W'y, you chowder-headed ass, he'll make yer look like a moth-et flannel shirt! Beat it!"
The patrician declined to "beat it," and Ash-Can Sam edged a little closer, wearing a dissolute, wicked leer of joy. He circled slowly round the stranger cat, eying
Mildly humorous short story about the night a pampered pet Persian met an alley cat.
