They were doing good work out back
of the Westcote express office. The Westcote
Land and Improvement Company was ripping the whole
top off Seiler’s Hill and dumping it into the
swampy meadow, and Mike Flannery liked to sit at the
back door of the express office, when there was nothing
to do, and watch the endless string of waggons dump
the soft clay and sand there. Already the swamp
was a vast landscape of small hills and valleys of
new, soft soil, and soon it would burst into streets
and dwellings. That would mean more work, but
Flannery did not care; the company had allowed him
a helper already, and Flannery had hopes that by the
time the swamp was populated Timmy would be of some
use. He doubted it, but he had hopes.
The four-thirty-two train had just
pulled in, and Timmy had gone across to meet it with
his hand-truck, and now he returned. He came lazily,
pulling the cart behind him with one hand. He
didn’t seem to care whether he ever got back
to the office. Flannery’s quick blood rebelled.
“Is that all th’ faster
ye can go?” he shouted. “Make haste!
Make haste! ‘Tis an ixpriss company ye
are workin’ fer, an’ not a cimitery.
T’ look at ye wan w’u’d think ye
was nawthin’ but a funeral!”
“Sure I am,” said Tommy.
“‘Tis as ye have said it, Flannery; I’m
th’ funeral.”
Flannery stuck out his under jaw,
and his eyes blazed. For nothing at all he would
have let Timmy have a fist in the side of the head,
but what was the use? There are some folks you
can’t pound sense into, and Timmy was one of
them.
“What have ye got, then?” asked Flannery.
“Nawthin’ but th’
corpse,” said Timmy impudently, and Flannery
did do it. He swung his big right hand at the
lad, and would have taught him something, but Timmy
wasn’t there. He had dodged. Flannery
ground his teeth, and bent over the hand-truck.
The next moment he straightened up and motioned to
Timmy, who had stepped back from him, nearly half a
block back.
“Come back,” he said peacefully.
“Come on back. This wan time I’ll
do nawthin’ to ye. Come on back an’
lift th’ box into th’ office. But
th’ next time ”
Timmy came back, grinning. He
took the box off the truck, carried it into the office,
and set it on the floor. It was not a large box,
nor heavy, just a small box with strips nailed across
the top, and there was an Angora cat in it. It
was a fine, large Angora cat, but it was dead.
Flannery looked at the tag that was
nailed on the side of the box. “Ye’d
betther git th’ waggon, Timmy,” he said
slowly, “an’ proceed with th’ funeral
up t’ Missus Warman’s. This be no
weather for perishable goods t’ be lyin’
‘round th’ office. Quick speed is
th’ motto av th’ Interurban Ixpriss
Company whin th’ weather is eighty-four in th’
shade. An’, Timmy,” he called as
the boy moved toward the door, “make no difficulty
sh’u’d she insist on receiptin’ fer
th’ goods as bein’ damaged. If nicissary
take th’ receipt fer ’Wan long-haired
cat, damaged.’ But make haste. ’Tis
in me mind that sh’u’d ye wait too long
Missus Warman will not be receivin’ th’
consignment at all. She’s wan av th’
particular kind, Timmy.”
In half an hour Timmy was back.
He came into the office lugging the box, and let it
drop on the floor with a thud.
“She won’t take no damaged cats,”
said Timmy shortly.
Mike Flannery laid his pen on his
desk with almost painful slowness and precision.
Slowly he slid off his chair, and slowly he picked
up his cap and put it on his head. He did not
say a word. His brow was drawn into deep wrinkles,
and his eyes glittered as he walked up to the box
with almost supernaturally stately tread and picked
it up. His lips were firmly set as he walked
out of the office into the hot sun. Timmy watched
him silently.
In less than half an hour Mike Flannery
came into the office again, quietly, and set the box
silently on the floor. Noiselessly he hung up
his cap on the nail above the big calendar back of
the counter. He sank into his chair and looked
for a long while at the blank wall opposite him.
“An’ t’ think,”
he said at last, like one still wrapped in a great
blanket of surprise, “t’ think she didn’t
swear wan cuss th’ whole time! Thim ladies
is wonderful folks! I wonder did she say th’
same t’ ye as she said t’ me, Timmy?”
“Sure she did,” said Timmy, grinning as
usual.
“Will ye think of that, now!”
said Flannery with admiration. “’Tis a
grand constitution she must be havin’, that lady.
Twice in wan afternoon! I wonder could she say
th’ same three times? ’Tis not possible.”
He ran his hand across his forehead
and sighed, and his eyes fell on the box. It
was still where he had put it, but he seemed surprised
to see it there. He had no recollection of anything
after Mrs. Warman had begun to talk. He picked
up his pen again.
“Interurban Express Co., New
York,” he wrote. “Consiny Mrs. Warman
wont reciev cat way bill 23645 Hibbert and Jones consinor
cat is ”
He grinned and ran the end of the
pen through his stubble of red hair.
“What is th’ swell worrd
fer dead, Timmy?” he asked. “I’m
writin’ a letter t’ th’ swell clerks
in New Yorrk that be always guyin’ me about
me letters, an’ I ’ll hand thim a swell
worrd fer wance.”
“Deceased,” said Timmy, grinning.
“‘Tis not that wan I was
thinkin’ of,” said Flannery, “but
that wan will do. ‘Tis a high-soundin’
worrd, deceased.”
He dipped his pen in the ink again.
“ cat is diseased,”
he wrote. “Pleas give disposal. Mike
Flannery.”
When the New York office of the Interurban
Express Company received Flannery’s letter they
called up Hibbert & Jones on the telephone. Hibbert
& Jones was the big department store, and it was among
the Interurban’s best customers. When the
Interurban could do it a favour it was policy to do
so, and the clerk knew that sending a cat back and
forth by rail was not the best thing for the cat, especially
if the cat was diseased.
“That cat,” said the manager
of the live-animal department of Hibbert & Jones,
“was in good health when it left here, absolutely,
so far as we know. If it was not it is none of
our business. Mrs. Warman came in and picked
the cat out from a dozen or more, and paid for it.
It is her cat. It doesn’t interest us any
more. And another thing: You gave us a receipt
for that cat in good order; if it was damaged in transit
it is none of our affair, is it?”
“Owner’s risk,”
said the Interurban clerk. “You know we
only accept live animals for transportation at owner’s
risk.”
“That lets us out, then,”
said the Hibbert & Jones clerk. “Mrs. Warman
is the owner. Ring off, please.”
Westcote is merely a suburb of New
York, and mails are frequent, and Mike Flannery found
a letter waiting for him when he opened the office
the next morning. It was brief. It said:
“Regarding cat, W.B. 23645,
this was sent at owner’s risk, and Mrs. Warman
seems to be the owner. Cat should be delivered
to her. We are writing her from this office,
but in case she does not call for it immediately,
you will keep it carefully in your office. You
had better have a veterinary look at the cat.
Feed it regularly.”
Mike Flannery folded the letter slowly
and looked down at the cat. “Feed it!”
he exclaimed. “I wonder, now, was that a
misprint fer fumigate it, fer that is what
it will be wantin’ mighty soon, if I know anything
about deceased cats. I wonder do thim dudes in
New Yorrk be thinkin, th’ long-haired cat is
only fainted, mebby? Do they think they see Mike
Flannery sittin’ be th’ bedside av
th’ cat, fannin’ it t’ bring it
back t’ consciousness? Feed it! Niver
in me life have I made a specialty av cats, long-haired
or short-haired, an’ I do not be pretindin’
t’ be a profissor av cats, but ’tis
me sittled belief that whin a cat is as dead as that
wan is it stops eatin’.”
He looked resentfully at the cat in the box.
“I wonder sh’u’d
I put th’ late laminted out on th’ back
porrch till th’ veterinary comes t’ take
its pulse? I wonder what th’ ixpriss company
wants a veterinary t’ butt into th’ thing
fer annyhow? Is it th’ custom nowadays
t’ require a certificate av health fer
every cat that ’s as dead as that wan is before
th’ funeral comes off? Sure, I do believe
th’ ixpriss company has doubts av Mike
Flannery’s ability t’ tell is a cat dead
or no. Mebby ’tis thrue. Mebby so.
But wan thing I’m dang sure av, an’
that is that sh’u’d the weather not turrn
off t’ a cold wave by to-morry mornin’
‘t will take no coroner t’ know th’
cat is dead.”
He opened the letter again and reread
it. As he did so the scowl on his face increased.
He held up the letter and slapped it with the back
of his hand.
“‘Kape it carefully in
your office,’” he read with scorn.
“Sure! An’ what about Flannery?
Does th’ man think I’m t’ sit side
be side with th’ dead pussy cat an’ thry
t’ work up me imagination t’ thinkin’
I’m sittin’ in a garden av tuberoses?
‘Tis well enough t’ say kape it, but cats
like thim does not kape very well. Th’ less
said about th’ way they kapes th’ betther.”
Timmy entered the office, and as he
passed the box he sniffed the air in a manner that
at once roused Flannery’s temper.
“Sthop that!” he shouted.
“I’ll have none av yer foolin’
t’-day. What fer are ye puckerin’
up yer nose at th’ cat fer? There’s
nawthin’ th’ matther with th’ cat.
‘Tis as sound as a shillin’, an’
there ’s no call fer ye t’ be sniffin’
‘round, Timmy, me lad! Go about yer worrk,
an’ lave th’ cat alone. ’Twill
kape ’twill kape a long time yet.
Don’t be so previous, me lad. If ye want
t’ sniff, there ’ll be plinty av time
by an’ by. Plinty av it.”
“Ye ain’t goin’
t’ keep th’ cat, are ye?” asked Timmy
with surprise.
“Let be,” said Flannery
softly, with a gentle downward motion of his hands.
“Let be. If ’tis me opinion ‘t
w’u’d be best t’ kape th’ cat
fer some time, I will kape it. Mike Flannery
is th’ ixpriss agint av this office, Tim,
me bye, an’ sh’u’d he be thinkin’
‘t w’u’d be best fer th’
intherists av th’ company t’ kape
a cat that is no longer livin’, he will.
There be manny things fer ye t’ learn, Timmy,
before ye know th’ whole av th’ ixpriss
business, an’ dead cats is wan av thim.”
“G’wan!” said Timmy
with a long-drawn vowel. “I know a dead
cat when I see one, now.”
“Mebby,” said Flannery
shortly. “Mebby. An’ mebby not.
But do ye know where Doc Pomeroy hangs out? Go
an’ fetch him.”
As Timmy passed the box on the way
out he looked at the cat with renewed interest.
He began to have a slight doubt that he might not know
a dead cat when he saw one, after all, if Flannery
was going to have a veterinary come to look at it.
But the cat certainly looked dead extremely
dead.
Doc Pomeroy was a tall, lank man with
a slouch in his shoulders and a sad, hollow-chested
voice. His voice was the deepest and mournfullest
bass. “The boy says you want me to look
at a cat,” he said in his hopeless tone.
“Where’s the cat?”
Flannery walked to the box and stood
over it, and Doc Pomeroy stood at the other side.
He did not even bend down to look at the cat.
“That cat’s dead,” he said without
emotion.
“Av course it is,”
said Flannery. “‘Twas dead th’ firrst
time I seen it.”
“The boy said you wanted me
to look at a cat,” said Doc Pomeroy.
“Sure!” said Flannery.
“Sure I did! That’s th’ cat.
I wanted ye t’ see th’ cat. What
might be yer opinion av it?”
“What do you want me to do with
the cat?” asked Doc Pomeroy.
“Look at it,” said Flannery
pleasantly. “Nawthin’ but look at
it. Thim is me orders. ‘Have a veterinary
look at th’ cat,’ is what they says.
An’ I can see be th’ look on ye that ’tis
yer opinion ’tis a mighty dead cat.”
“That cat,” said the veterinary
slowly, “is as dead as it can be. A cat
can’t be any deader than that one is.”
“It cannot,” said Flannery
positively. “But it can be longer dead.”
“If I had a cat that had been
dead longer than that cat has been dead,” said
Doc Pomeroy as he moved away, “I wouldn’t
have to see it to know that it was dead. A cat
that has been dead longer than that cat has been dead
lets you know it. That cat will let you know it
pretty quick, now.”
“Thank ye,” said Flannery.
“An’ ye have had a good look at it?
Ye w’u’dn’t like t’ look at
it again, mebby? Thim is me orders, t’allow
ixamination be th’ veterinary, an’ if ‘t
w’u’d be anny comfort t’ ye I will
draw up a chair so ye can look all ye want to.”
The veterinary raised his sad eyes
to Flannery’s face and let them rest there a
moment. “Much obliged,” he said, but
he did not look at the cat again. He went back
to his headquarters.
That afternoon Flannery and Timmy
began walking quickly when they passed the box, and
toward evening, when Flannery had to make out his reports,
he went out on the back porch and wrote them, using
a chair-seat for a desk. One of his tasks was
to write a letter to the New York office.
“W.B. 23645,” he wrote,
“the vetinnary has seen the cat, and its diseased
all right. he says so. no sine of Mrs. Warman yet but
île keep the cat in the offis if you say so as
long as i cann stand it. but how cann i feed a diseased
cat. i nevver fed a diseased cat yet. what do you
feed cats lik that.”
The next morning when Flannery reached
the office he opened the front door, and immediately
closed it with a bang and locked it. Timmy was
late, as usual. Flannery stood a minute looking
at the door, and then he sat down on the edge of the
curb to wait for Timmy. The boy came along after
a while, indolently as usual, but when he saw Flannery
he quickened his pace a little.
“What’s th’ matter?” he asked.
“Locked out?”
Flannery stood up. He did not
even say good morning. He ran his hand into his
pocket and pulled out the key. “Timmy,”
he said gently, almost lovingly, “I have business
that takes me t’ th’ other side av
town. I have th’ confidence in ye, Timmy,
t’ let ye open up th’ office. ’T
will be good ixperience fer ye.” He
cast his eye down the street, where the car line made
a turn around the corner. The trolley wire was
shaking. “Th’ way ye open up,”
he said slowly, “is t’ push th’ key
into th’ keyhole. Push th’ key in,
Timmy, an’ thin turrn it t’ th’ lift.
Wait!” he called, as Timmy turned. “‘Tis
important t’ turrn t’ th’ lift, not
th’ right. An’ whin ye have th’
door open” the car was rounding the
corner, and Flannery stepped into the street “whin
ye have th’ door open th’ door
open” the car was where he could touch
it “take th’ cat out behint
th’ office an’ bury it, an’ if ye
don’t I’ll fire ye out av yer job.
Mind that!”
The car sped by, and Flannery swung
aboard. Timmy watched it until it went out of
sight around the next corner, and then he turned to
the office door. He pushed the key in, and turned
it to the left.
When Flannery returned the cat was
gone, and so was Timmy. The grocer next door
handed Flannery the key, and Flannery’s face
grew red with rage. He opened the door of the
office, and for a moment he was sure the cat was not
gone, but it was. Flannery could not see the box;
it was gone. He threw open the back door and
let the wind sweep through the office, and it blew
a paper off the desk. Flannery picked it up and
read it. It was from Timmy.
“Mike Flannery, esquire,”
it said. “Take youre old job. Im tired
of the express bisiness. Too much cats and missus
Warmans in it. im going to New York to look for a
decent job. I berried the cat for you but no more
for me. youres truly.”
Flannery smiled. The loss of
Timmy did not bother him so long as the cat had gone
also. He turned to the tasks of the day with a
light heart.
The afternoon mail brought him a letter
from the New York office. “Regarding W.B.
23645,” it said, “and in answer to yours
of yesterday’s date. In our previous communication
we clearly requested you to have a veterinary look
at the cat. We judge from your letter that you
neglected to do this, as the veterinary would certainly
have told you what to feed the cat. See the veterinary
at once and ask him what to feed the cat. Then
feed the cat what he tells you to feed it. We
presume it is not necessary for us to tell you to
water the cat.”
Flannery grinned. “An’
ain’t thim th’ jokers, now!” he exclaimed.
“’Tis some smart bye must have his fun
with ould Flannery! Go an’ see th’
veterinary! An’ ask him what t’ feed
th’ cat! ‘Good mornin’, Misther
Pomeroy. Do ye remimber th’ dead cat ye
looked at yisterday? ’Tis in a bad way
th’ mornin’, sor. ‘Tis
far an’ away deader than it was yisterday.
We had th’ funeral this mornin’. What
w’u’d ye be advisin’ me t’
feed it fer a regular diet now?’ Oh yis!
I’ll go t’ th’ veterinary not!”
He stared at the letter frowningly.
“An’ ‘tis not nicessary
t’ tell me t’ water th’ cat!”
he said. “Oh, no, they’ll be trustin’
Flannery t’ water th’ cat. Flannery
has loads av time. ‘Tis no need fer
him t’ spind his time doin’ th’ ixpriss
business. ‘Git th’ sprinklin’-can,
Flannery, an’ water th’ cat. Belike
if ye water it well ye’ll be havin’ a
fine flower-bed av long-haired cats out behint
th’ office. Water th’ cat well, an’
plant it awn th’ sunny side av th’
house, an’ whin it sprouts transplant it t’
th’ shady side where it can run up th’
trellis. ’T will bloom hearty until cold
weather, if watered plinty!’ Bechune thim an’
me ‘tis me opinion th’ cat was kept too
long t’ grow well anny more.”
Mrs. Warman was very much surprised
that afternoon to receive a letter from the express
company. As soon as she saw the name of the company
in the corner of the envelope her face hardened.
She had an intuition that this was to be another case
where the suffering public was imposed upon by an
overbearing corporation, and she did not mean to be
the victim. She had refused the cat. Fond
as she was of cats, she had never liked them dead.
She was through with that cat. She tore open the
envelope. A woman never leaves an envelope unopened.
The next moment she was more surprised than before.
“Dear Madam,” said the
letter. “Regarding a certain cat sent to
your address through our company by Hibbert & Jones
of this city, while advising you of our entire freedom
from responsibility in the matter, all animals being
accepted by us at owner’s risk only, we beg to
make the following communication: The cat is
now in storage at our express office in Westcote,
and is sick. A letter from our agent there leads
us to believe that the cat may not receive the best
of attention at his hands. In order that it may
be properly fed and cared for we would suggest that
you accept the cat from our hands, under protest if
you wish, until you can arrange with Messrs. Hibbert
& Jones as to the ownership. In asking you to
take the cat in this way we have no other object in
view than to stop the charges for storage and care,
which are accumulating, and to make sure that the
cat is receiving good attention. We might say,
however, that Hibbert & Jones assure us that the cat
is your property, and therefore, until we have assurance
to the contrary, we must look to you for all charges
for transportation, storage, and care accruing while
the cat is left with us. Yours very truly.”
When she had read the letter Mrs.
Warman’s emotions were extremely mixed.
She felt an undying anger toward the express company;
she felt an entirely different and more personal anger
toward the firm of Hibbert & Jones; but above all
she felt a great surprise regarding the cat. If
ever she had seen a cat that she thought was a thoroughly
dead cat this was the cat. She had had many cats
in her day, and she had always thought she knew a
dead cat when she saw one, and now this dead cat was
alive ailing, perhaps, but alive. The
more she considered it, the less likely it seemed
to her that she could have been mistaken about the
deadness of that cat. It had been offered to her
twice. The first time she saw it she knew it
was dead, and the second time she saw it she knew
it was, if anything, more dead than it had been the
first time. The conclusion was obvious.
A cat had been sent to her in a box. She had
refused to receive a dead cat, and the expressmen had
taken the box away again. Now there was a live,
but sick, cat in the box. She had her opinion
of expressmen, express companies, and especially of
the firm of Hibbert & Jones. This full opinion
she sent to Hibbert & Jones by the next mail.
The next morning Flannery was feeling
fine. He whistled as he went to the nine twenty
train, and whistled as he came back to the office with
his hand-truck full of packages and the large express
envelope with the red seals on the back snugly tucked
in his inside pocket, but when he opened the envelope
and read the first paper that fell out he stopped
whistling.
“Agent, Westcote,” said
the letter. “Regarding W.B. 23645, Hibbert
& Jones, consignor of the cat you are holding in storage,
advises us that the consignee claims cat you have
is not the cat shipped by consignor. Return cat
by first train to this office. If the cat is not
strong enough to travel alone have veterinary accompany
it. Yrs. truly, Interurban Express Company, per
J.”
At first a grin spread over the face
of Flannery. “’Not sthrong enough t’
travel alone’!” he said with a chuckle.
“If iver there was a sthrong cat ‘tis
that wan be this time, an’ ‘t w’u’d
be a waste av ixpinse t’ hire a ”
Suddenly his face sobered.
He glanced out of the back door at
the square mile of hummocky sand and clay.
“‘Return cat be firrst
trrain t’ this office,’” he repeated
blankly. He left his seat and went to the door
and looked out. “Return th’ cat,”
he said, and stepped out upon the edge of the soft,
new soil. It was all alike in its recently dug
appearance. “Th’ cat, return it,”
he repeated, taking steps this way and that way, with
his eyes on the clay at his feet. He walked here
and there, but one place looked like the others.
There was room for ten thousand cats, and one cat might
have been buried in any one of ten thousand places.
Flannery sighed. Orders were orders, and he went
back to the office and locked the doors. He borrowed
a coal-scoop from the grocer next door and went out
and began to dig up the clay and sand. He dug
steadily and grimly. Never, perhaps, in the history
of the world had a man worked so hard to dig up a dead
cat. Even in ancient Egypt, where the cat was
a sacred animal, they did not dig them up when they
had them planted. Quite the contrary: it
was a crime to dig them up; and Flannery, as he dug,
had a feeling that it would be almost a crime to dig
up this one. Never, perhaps, did a man dig so
hard to find a thing he really did not care to have.
Flannery dug all that morning.
At lunch-time he stopped digging and went
without his lunch long enough to deliver
the packages that had come on the early train.
As he passed the station he saw a crowd of boys playing
hockey with an old tomato-can, and he stopped.
When he reached the office he was followed by sixteen
boys. Some of them had spades, some of them had
small fire-shovels, some had only pointed sticks, but
all were ready to dig. He showed them where he
had already dug.
“Twinty-five cints apiece, annyhow,”
he said, “an’ five dollars fer
th’ lucky wan that finds it.”
“All right,” said one.
“Now what is it we are to dig for?”
“’Tis a cat,” said Flannery, “a
dead wan.”
“Go on!” cried the boy sarcastically.
“What is it we are to dig for?”
“I can get you a dead cat, mister,” said
another. “Our cat died.”
“’T will not do,”
said Flannery. “‘T is a special cat I’m
wantin’. ’T is a long-haired cat,
an’ ’t was dead a long time. Ye can’t
mistake it whin ye come awn to it. If ye dig
up a cat ye know no wan w’u’d want t’
have, that ’s it.”
The sixteen boys dug, and Flannery,
in desperation, dug, but a square mile is a large
plot of ground to dig over. No one, having observed
that cat on the morning when Timmy planted it, would
have believed it could be put in any place where it
could not be instantly found again. It had seemed
like a cat that would advertise itself. But that
is just like a cat; it is always around when it is
n’t needed, and when it is needed it can’t
be found. Before the afternoon was half over the
boys had tired of digging for a dead cat and had gone
away, but Flannery kept at it until the sun went down.
Then he looked to see how much of the plot was left
to dig up. It was nearly all left. As he
washed his hands before going to his boarding-house
a messenger-boy handed him a telegram. Flannery
tore it open with misgivings.
“Cat has not arrived. Must
come on night train. Can accept no excuse,”
it read.
Flannery folded the telegram carefully
and put it in his hip pocket. He washed his hands
with more deliberate care than he had ever spent on
them. He adjusted his coat most carefully on his
back, and then walked with dignity to his boarding-house.
He knew what would happen. There would be an
inspector out from the head office in the morning.
Flannery would probably have to look for a new job.
In the morning he was up early, but
he was still dignified. He did not put on his
uniform, but wore his holiday clothes, with the black
tie with the red dots. An inspector is a hard
man to face, but a man in his best clothes has more
of a show against him. Flannery came to the office
the back way; there was a possibility of the inspector’s
being already at the front door. As he crossed
the filled-in meadows he poked unhopefully at the
soil here and there, but nothing came of it. But
suddenly his eyes lighted on a figure that he knew,
just turning out of the alley three buildings from
the office. It was Timmy!
Flannery had no chance at all.
He ran, but how can a man run in his best clothes
across soft, new soil when he is getting a bit too
stout? And Timmy had seen him first. When
Flannery reached the corner of the alley Timmy was
gone, and with a sigh that was partly regret and partly
breathlessness from his run Flannery turned into the
main street. There was the inspector, sure enough,
standing on the curb. Flannery had lost some
of his dignity, but he made up for it in anger.
He more than made up for it in the heat he had run
himself into. He was red in the face. He
met the inspector with a glare of anger.
“There be th’ key, if
‘tis that ye’re wantin’, an’
ye may take it an’ welcome, fer no more
will I be ixpriss agint fer a company that sinds
long-haired cats dead in a box an’ orders me
t’ kape thim throo th’ hot weather fer
a fireside companion an’ ready riferince av
perfumery. How t’ feed an’ water
dead cats av th’ long-haired kind I may
not know, an’ how t’ live with dead cats
I may not know, but whin t’ bury dead cats I
do know, an’ there be plinty av other
jobs where a man is not ordered t’ dig up forty-siven
acres t’ find a cat that was buried none too
soon at that!”
“What’s that?” said the inspector.
“Is that cat dead?”
“An’ what have I been
tellin’ th’ dudes in th’ head office
all th’ while?” asked Flannery with asperity.
“What but that th’ late deceased dead
cat was defunct an’ no more? An’ thim
insultin’ an honest man with their ‘Have
ye stholen th’ cat out av th’ box,
Flannery, an’ put in an inferior short-haired
cat?’ I want no more av thim! Here’s
the key. Good day t’ ye!”
“Hold on,” said the inspector,
putting his hand on Flannery’s arm. “You
don’t go yet. I ’ll have a look at
your cash and your accounts first. What you say
about that cat may be true enough, but we have got
to have proof of it. That was a valuable cat,
that was. It was an Angora cat, a real Angora
cat. You’ve got to produce that cat before
we are through with you.”
“Projuce th’ cat!”
said Flannery angrily. “Th’ cat is
safe an’ sound in th’ back lot. I
presint ye with th’ lot. If ’t is
not enough fer ye, go awn an’ do th’
dirthy worrk ye have t’ do awn me. I’ll
dig no more fer th’ cat.”
The inspector unlocked the door and
entered the office. It was hot with the close
heat of a room that has been locked up overnight.
Just inside the door the inspector stopped and sniffed
suspiciously. No express office should have smelled
as that one smelled.
“Wan minute!” cried Flannery,
pulling away from the inspector’s grasp.
“Wan minute! I have a hint there be a long-haired
cat near by. Wance ye have been near wan av
thim ye can niver mistake thim Angora cats. I
w’u’d know th’ symbol av thim
with me eyes shut. ’T is a signal ye c’u’d
tell in th’ darrk.”
He hurried to the back door.
The cat was there, all right. A little deader
than it had been, perhaps, but it was there on the
step, long hair and all.
“Hurroo!” shouted Flannery.
“An’ me thinkin’ I w’u’d
niver see it again! Can ye smell th’ proof,
Misther Inspictor? ’T is good sthrong proof
fer ye! An’ I sh’u’d have
knowed it all th’ while. Angora cats I know
not be th’ spicial species, an’ th’
long-haired breed av cats is not wan I have associated
with much, an’ cats so dang dead as this wan
I do not kape close in touch with, ginerally, but
all cats have a grrand resimblance t’ cats.
Look at this wan, now. ’T is just like a
cat. It kem back.”