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.”