A Night Out

Edward Peple
A NIGHT OUT
BY EDWARD PEPLE
Frontispiece by R.L. GOLDBERG

[Illustration: "The Beast has had the time of his life."]

I
Omar Ben Sufi was a cat. This unadorned statement would have
wounded Omar Ben to the marrow of his pride, for he chanced to be a
splendid tiger-marked feline of purest Persian breed, with glorious
yellow eyes and a Solomon-in-all-his-glory tail. His pedigree could be
traced directly back to Padisha Zim Yuki Yowsi Zind--a dignity, in
itself, sufficient to cause an aristocratic languor; but, to the layman, he
was just a cat.
He dwelt with an exclusive family of humans in a little
eighty-thousand-dollar cottage on the outskirts of vulgarity--which is to
say, the villa was situated near enough to town to admit of marketing,
but far enough removed therefrom to escape the clatter of plebeian toil
and the noxious contact with the unhealthy, unwealthy herd. Here the
humans entertained selected friends who came at the ends of weeks to
admire the splendor of Omar Ben's tail, to bow down to the humans'
money, and to hate them fiercely because they had it.
The master did not toil. He lived, for certain hours of the day, in Wall
Street, where he sank his patrician fingers into the throats of lesser men,
squeezed them dry, then washed his hands in violet water, and built a
church. True, he did not attend this church himself, but he built it;
otherwise his neighbors might have been deprived of the opportunity of

praising God.
Omar Ben had a French maid all to himself--a perky little human with a
quasi-kinship to the feline race--who combed him and brushed him and
slicked him down and gave him endless, mortifying baths. Also, she
tied lavender bows about his neck, and fed him from Dresden china on
minute particles of flaked fish and raw sirloin, with a dessert of
pasteurized cream.
In the rear of the eighty-thousand-dollar cottage there was a
thirty-thousand-dollar flower-garden--an oppressively clean garden,
where the big Jack-roses were as immaculate as a "mama's Lizzie-boy,"
and the well-bred, timid little violets seemed to long to play in the dirt,
yet dared not because of the master-rule of "form." And here the clean
cat used to sun himself in the clean garden, thinking his clean thoughts
and perishing of ennui clean through.
Then, one day, from the vulgar outer world came an unclean incident.
Omar Ben became conscious of an uproar beyond the garden wall. It
embraced a whimper of canine hope, a spitting taunt, and the patter of
flying paws; then, suddenly, on the top of the high brick wall appeared
a cat. The newcomer paused an instant to fling an obscene au revoir at
the raging, disappointed dog, dropped carelessly down into a
geranium-bed, and took his bearings.
He was not a patrician. Omar Ben eyed him in a sort of wondering awe.
The stranger was a long-barreled, rumple-furred, devil-clawed street
arab, of a caste--or no-caste--that battles for existence with the
world--and beats it. On his tail were rings of missing fur, suggesting
former attachments, not of lady friends, but of tin cans and strings. For
further assets, he possessed one eye and a twisted smile. His present
total liability lay in the dog beyond the wall, so the arab wasn't so badly
fixed, after all. Besides, he owned property. It consisted of a bullfrog
which he carried in his mouth, with its legs and web feet protruding in
wriggly, but unavailing, protest.
To breathe the better, the street cat dropped his frog and set one mangy

paw upon it; then, suddenly, he spied the Persian.
"Hello, bo!" he observed cheerfully. "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
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code

 / 5
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.