“Gosh!  A camel!” gasped Willie.

“Lord of love!” ejaculated Scraggs.  “It sure is a camel!”

There was a faint crash and a tinkle of glass as the bottle of red ink struck the penthouse roof just over the beast’s head and deluged it with its vermilion contents.  Eset reared, shook her neck, gave a defiant grunt and swiftly withdrew her head into the attic.

Sophie Hassoun, the wife of Kasheed, seeing the violent change in Eset’s complexion, wrung her hands.

“What hast thou done, O daughter of devils?  Thou art bleeding!  Thou hast cut thyself!  Alack, mayhap thou wilt die, and then we shall be ruined!  Improvident!  Careless one!  Cursed be thy folly!  Hast thou no regard?  And I dare not send for Doctor Koury, the veterinary, for then thy presence would be discovered and the gendarmes would come and take thee away.  Would that we had left thee at Coney Island!  O, great-granddaughter of Al Adha—­sacred camel of the Prophet—­why hast thou done this?  Why hast thou brought misery upon us? Awar!  Awar!”

She cast herself upon the improvised divan in the corner, while Eset, blinking, licked her big yellow hind hump, and tumbled forward upon her knees preparatory to sitting down herself.

“A camel!” repeated Willie, round-eyed.  He counted the roofs dividing the penthouse from where Morris Street bisected the block.  “Whoop!” he cried and dashed out of the office.

In less than four minutes Patrolman Dennis Patrick Murphy, who was standing on post on Washington Street in front of Nasheen Zereik’s Embroidery Bazaar talking to Sardi Babu, saw a red-headed, pug-nosed urchin come flying round the corner.

“One—­two—­three—­four—­five.  That’s the house!” cried Willie Toothaker.  “That’s it!”

“What yer talkin’ ’bout?” drawled Murphy.

“There’s a camel in there!” shouted Willie, dancing up and down.

“Camel—­yer aunt!” sneered the cop.  “They couldn’t get no camel in there!”

“There is!  I seen it stick its head out of the roof!”

Sardi Babu, the oily-faced little dealer in pillow shams, smiled slyly.  He had thick black ringlets, parted exactly down the middle of his scalp, hanging to his shoulders, and a luxuriant black curly beard reaching to his middle; in addition to which he wore a blue blouse and carpet slippers.  He was a Maronite from Lebanon, and he and his had a feud with Hassoun, Majdalain, and all others who belonged to the sect headed by the Patriarch of Antioch.

“Belki!" he remarked significantly.  “Perhaps his words are true!  I have heard it whispered already by Lillie Nadowar, now the wife of Butros the confectioner.  Moreover, I myself have seen hay on the stairs.”

“Huh?” exclaimed Murphy.  “We’ll soon find out.  Come along you, Babu!  Show me where you was seein’ the hay.”

By this time those who had been lounging upon the adjacent doorstep had come running to see what was the matter, and a crowd had gathered.