To most New Yorkers this is a section of the city totally unknown and unsuspected, yet existing as in a fourth dimension within a stone’s throw—­and nearer—­of our busiest metropolitan artery—­and there within one hundred yards of the aforesaid Mr. Zimmerman’s office above the electric cars of Broadway, and within earshot of the hoots of many a multimillionaire’s motor, on a certain evening something of an Oriental character was doing in the hallway of a house on Washington Street that subsequently played a part in the professional lives of Tutt & Tutt.

Out of the literally Egyptian darkness of the tenement owned by Abadallah Shanin Khaldi issued curious smothered sounds, together with an unmistakable, pungent, circuslike odor.

“Whack!”

There came an indignant grunt, followed by a flabby groan and a straining and squeaking of the jerry-built staircase as Kasheed Hassoun vigorously applied a lath to the horny backsides of Eset el Gazzar.

“Ascend, dog of a dog!” panted Kasheed.  “Move thy accursed feet, O wizened hump!  Daughter of Satan, give me room!  Thou art squeezing out my life!  Only go on, child of my heart!  It is but a step upward, O Queen of the Nile.  Hold the rope tight, Kalil!”

The camel obediently surged forward, breaking off a section of banister.  Through the racket from the hallway above faintly came the voice of Kalil Majdalain.

“Her head is free of the ceiling.  Quick, Kasheed!  Turn her, thou, upon the landing!”

“Whack!” responded the lath in the hand of Kasheed Hassoun.

Step by step the gentle shaggy brute felt her way with feet, knees and nozzle up the narrow staircase.  What was this but another of those bizarre experiences which any camel-of-the-world must expect in a land where the water wells squirted through a tube and men rode in chariots driven by fire?

“Whack!”

“Go on, darling of my soul!” whispered Kasheed.  “Curses upon thy father and upon the mother that bore thee!  Wilt thou not move?”

“Whack!”

“Ouch!  She devil!  Thou hast trod upon my foot!”

Outside, that the Western world might not suspect what was going on, Shaheen Mahfous and Shanin Saba unloaded with as much noise as possible a dray of paper for Meraat-ul-Gharb, the Daily Mirror.  By and by a window on the fourth floor opened and the head of Kalil Majdalain appeared.

“Mahabitcum!" he grinned; which, being interpreted, means “Good fellowship to all!”

Then presently he and Kasheed joined the others upon the sidewalk, and, the rolls of paper having been delivered inside the pressroom, the four Syrians climbed upon the truck and drove to the restaurant of Ghabryel & Assad two blocks farther north, where they had a bit of awamat, coffee and cigarettes, and then played a game of cards, while in the attic of the tenement house Eset el Gazzar munched a mouthful of hay and tapped her interior reservoir for a drink of clear water, as she sighed through her valvelike nostrils and pouted with her cushioned lips, pondering upon the vagaries of quadrupedal existence.