MIKE FLANNERY
On Duty and Off
by
ELLIS PARKER BUTLER
Illustrations by Gustavus C. Widney
New York Doubleday, Page & Company
MCMIX
[Illustration: "_'Pho-e-nix!' Is it a man's name, I dunno?_"]
CONTENTS
I. JUST LIKE A CAT
II. THE THREE HUNDRED
III. FLEAS WILL BE FLEAS
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Pho-e-nix!' Is it a man's name, I dunno?" (Frontispiece)
"''Tis well enough t' say kape it, but cats like
thim does not kape very well'"
"'I will tell you what it is,' said Mr. Gratz"
"Her pencil was delicately poised above the ruled page"
I
JUST LIKE A CAT
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."
[Illustration: "_''Tis well enough t' say kape it, but cats like thim
does not kape very well'_"]
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 ile 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."
II
THE THREE HUNDRED
There was a certain big sort of masterfulness about the president of the
Interurban Express Company that came partly from his natural force of
character and partly from the position he occupied as head of the
company, and when he said a thing must be done he meant it. In his own
limited field he was a bigger man than the President of the United
States, for he was not only the chief executive of the Interurban
Express Company, but he made its laws as well. He could issue general
orders turning the whole operation of the road other end to as easily as
a national executive could order the use of, let us say, a simplified
form of spelling in a few departments of the Government. He sat in the
head office of the company at Franklin and said "Let this be done," and,
in every suburban town where the Interurban had offices, that thing was
done, under pain of dismissal from the service of the company. Even
Flannery, who was born rebellious, would scratch his red hair in the
Westcoate office and grumble and then follow orders.
Old Simon Gratz came into the president's office one morning and sat
himself into a vacant chair with a grunt of disapprobation, the same
grunt of disapprobation that had been like saw-filing to the nerves of
the president for many years, and the president immediately prepared to
contradict him, regardless of what it might be that Simon Gratz
disapproved of. It happened to be the simplified spelling. He waved the
morning paper at the president and wanted to know what _he_ thought of
this outrageous thing of chopping off the tails of good old English
words with an official carving-knife, ruining a language that had been
fought and bled for at Lexington, and making it look like a dialect
story, or a woman with two front teeth out.
It rather strained the president sometimes to think of a sound train of
argument against Simon Gratz at a moment's notice. Sometimes he had to
abandon the beliefs of a lifetime in order to take the other side of a
proposition that Simon Gratz announced unexpectedly, and it was still
harder to get up an enthusiasm for one side of a thing of which he had
never heard, as he sometimes had to do; but he was ready to meet Simon
Gratz on either side of the simplified spelling matter, for he had read
about it himself in the morning paper. It had seemed a rather
unimportant matter until Simon Gratz mentioned it, but now it
immediately became a thing of the most intimate concern.
"What do I think?" he asked. "I think it is the grandest thing--the most
sensible thing--the greatest step forward that has been taken for
centuries. That is what I think. It is a revolution! That is what I
think, Mr. Gratz."
He swung around in his chair and struck his desk with his fist to
emphasize his words. Mr. Gratz, whose opinions were the more obnoxious
because he was a stockholder of the company, sniffed. The way he had of
sniffing was like a red rag to a bull, and he meant it as such. The
president accepted it in the spirit in which it was meant. He said:
"Bah!"
"I will tell you what it is," said Mr. Gratz, pushing his chin up at the
president. "It is the most idiotic--"
[Illustration: "_'I will tell you what it is,' said Mr. Gratz_"]
"Don't tell me!" cried Mr. Smalley. "I don't want you to tell me
anything! What do you know about the English language, anyhow? 'Gratz!'
That is a pretty name for a man who pretends to have a right to say how
the English language shall be spelled! Don't I know your history, Mr.
Gratz? Don't I know you had your name changed from Gratzensteinburgher?
And you pretend to be worried because our President and the most
talented men in the country want to drop a few useless letters out of a
measly three hundred words! I tell you these changes in spelling should
have been made long ago. Long ago. This is the business man's age, Mr.
Gratz-and-the-rest-of-it. Yes, sir! And you, as a business man, should
be proud of this concession made by our most noted scholars to the needs
of the business man."
"Look at 'em!" sneered Mr. Gratz, patting the list of three hundred
revised words with his finger, and shoving the newspaper under Mr.
Smalley's nose. "Poor bob-tailed, one-eyed mongrels! Progress! It is
anarchy--impudence--Look at this--'t-h-r-u!' What kind of a word is
that? 'T-h-o!' What kind of a thing is that? What in the world is a
's-i-t-h-e,' I would like to know?"
Mr. Smalley had not been sufficiently interested in the matter of new
spelling to save his morning paper. He had not even read through the
list of three hundred words. But he was interested now. The new spelling
had become the thing most dear to his heart, and he pulled the paper
from Mr. Gratz's hand and slapped the list of words warmly.
"Progress! Yes, progress! That is the word. And economy!" he cried.
"That is the true American spirit! That is what appeals to the man who
is not a fossil!" This was a delicate compliment to Mr. Gratz, but Mr.
Gratz was so used to receiving compliments when Mr. Smalley was talking
to him that he did not blush with pleasure. He merely got red in the
face. "Think of the advantage of saving one letter in every word that is
written in every business office in America?" continued Mr. Smalley
excitedly. "The ink saved by this company alone by dropping those
letters will amount to a thousand dollars a year. And in the whole
correspondence of the nation it will amount to millions! Millions of
dollars, in ink alone, to say nothing of the time saved!" He got out of
his chair and began to walk up and down the office, waving his arms. It
helped him to get hot, and he liked to get hot when Mr. Gratz called. It
was the only time he indulged himself. So he always got as hot as he
could while he had the chance.
"Yes, sir!" he shouted, while Mr. Gratz sat shrunken down into his chair
and watched him with a teasing smile. "And I will tell you something
more. The policy of this company is to be economical. Yes, sir! And this
company is going to adopt the simplified spelling! Going to adopt it
right now! In spite of all the old-fogyism in the world!--Miss Merrill!"
The office-door opened, and a pompadour, followed by a demure young
lady, entered the room. She slipped quietly into a chair beside the
president's desk and laid her copy-book on the slide of the desk and
waited while her employer arranged the words in his mind. Her pencil was
delicately poised above the ruled page. While she waited she hit the
front of her pompadour a few improving slaps with her unengaged hand and
pulled out the slack of her waist front.
"Take this," said Mr. Smalley sharply. "General Order Number (you can
supply the number, Miss Merrill). To all employees of the Interurban
Express Company: On and after this date all employees of this company
will use, in their correspondence and in all other official business,
the following list of three hundred words. By order of the president.
Read what you have there."
[Illustration: "_Her pencil was delicately poised above the ruled
page_"]
Miss Merrill ran one hand around her belt--she was the kind of girl that
can make her toilet and do business at the same time--and read:
"'General Order Number Seven Hundred and Nineteen. To all employees
of the Interurban Express Company: On and after this date all employees
of this company will use, in their correspondence and in all other
official business, the following list of three hundred words. By order
of the president.'"
"Yes," said the president, tearing a strip from Mr. Gratz's newspaper
that he held in his hand. "Here is the list of words. I want the whole
thing mimeographed, and I want you to see that a copy gets into the
hands of every man and woman in our employ: all the offices, here and on
the road. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, and then she arose, fixed her neck scarf, and
went out. Mr. Smalley took his seat at his desk and began arranging his
papers, humming cheerfully.
Mr. Gratz arose and stalked silently out of the office. But when the
door was closed behind him he smiled. One of the members of the
"Simplified Spelling Board" was his personal friend. Mr. Gratz had
prevailed upon Mr. Smalley to adopt the new spelling, and he had done so
by using the only means he could use with hope of success.
The next day Mike Flannery, the Westcote agent of the express company,
was sitting at his desk in the express office, carefully spelling out a
letter to Mary O'Donnell, on whom his affections were firmly fixed, when
he heard the train from Franklin whistle. He had time to read what he
had written before he went to meet the train, and he glanced over the
letter hastily.
"Dearst Mary Odonil," it said, "reply in to yourse i would say i ment no
harm when i kised you last nite it did not mene you was no lady but my
feelins got to mutch for me i love you so how was i to no you wood not
like it when i had never tried it on befor if you dont like it i will
let up on that after this but it was the best kiss i ever had--" He
stopped to scratch out the part about its being the best kiss he had
ever had, for that seemed, on second thought, not the best thing to say,
and then, as lovers so often do, he tore the whole letter to bits, and
hurried to meet the train.
Flannery came back with a few packages and a couple of the long official
envelopes. He dumped the packages on his counter and tore open the first
of the envelopes. It was a mimeograph circular and had that benzine odor
that Flannery had come to associate with trouble, for it meant a new
rule that he must follow, or a change of rates that he must memorize,
under penalty of dismissal. All orders were given under penalty of
dismissal, and Flannery had so many rules and regulations under his red
hair that each day he wondered whether he would still be the Westcote
agent at the end of the next.
As he read his forehead wrinkled.
"'Gineral Order Number Sivin Hundred an' noineteen,'" he read slowly.
"And is it possible 'tis only th' sivin hundred an' noineteenth of thim
I have been gettin'? I w'u'd have said 't was th' forty-sivinth thousand
gineral order I have had t' learn and memorize. Wheniver th' prisidint,
or th' vice-prisidint, or th' manager, or th' janitor, or th' office-boy
at th' head office has nawthin' else t' do they be thinkin' up a new
gineral order t' sind t' Flannery. 'What's th' news of th' day?' says
th' prisidint. 'Nawthin' doin',' says th' janitor. 'Then wake up and
sind Flannery a gineral order t' learn th' Declaration av Indepindince
by hearrt,' says th' prisidint. 'Mebby he do be gittin' lazy!' 'And
shall I add on th' Constitution av th' United States?' says th' janitor.
'Sure!' says th' prisidint, ''t will do Flannery no harm t' be busy.'"
He held the paper out at arm's length and shook his head at it, and then
slapped it down on the counter and gave it his attention.
"'To all imployees av th' Interurban Ixpriss Company,'" he read. "'On
an' after this date all imployees av this company will use, in their
correspondince, and in all other official business, the follyin' list av
t'ree hunderd words. By order of th' prisidint.' Sure!" he said. "'Under
penalty av dismissal from th' service av th' company,' as ye might be
sayin'!"
He turned to the list of three hundred words and began to read it. As he
passed down the list the frown on his brow deepened. At "anapest" it was
a noticeable frown, at "apothem" it became very pronounced, and at
"dieresis" his shaggy red brows nearly covered his eyes, he was frowning
so hard.
"I wonder what th' Interurban Ixpriss Company w'u'd loike me t' be
writin' thim on th' subject av 'ecumenical'?" he said. "Mebby there be
some of these here 'edile' and 'egis' things comin' by ixpriss, and 't
will be a foine thing t' know how t' spell thim whin th' con-_sign_-y
puts in a claim fer damages, but if th' company is goin' t' carry many
'eponyms' and 'esophaguses' Mike Flannery will be lookin' for another
job.--And w'u'd you look at this wan! 'Paleography!' Thim be nice words
t' order th' agints av th' ixpriss company t' be usin'!"
He pulled at a lock of his hair thoughtfully.
"I wonder, now," he said, "do they want Mike Flannery t' learn all thim
words by hearrt, and use thim all. Should I be usin' thim all in one
letter, or distribute thim throughout th' correspondince, or what? 'T is
a grand lot of worrds if I only knew what anny of thim meant, but 't
will be hard t' find a subject t' write on t' run in this word of
'homonym.' There has not been one of thim about th' office since Mike
Flannery has been here."
But his duty was plain, and he took his varnish pot and pasted the list
on the wall beside his desk where he could refer to it instantly, and
then he slid on to his high stool to write the acknowledgment of the
receipt of the list.
"Interurban Express Co., Franklin. Gentelmen," he wrote, "I receved the
genral order 719 and will oba it but I will have to practise v. and n.
awhile first, some of the words dont come natural to me off hand like
polyp and estivate. what is the rate on these if any comes exprest.
whats a etiology, pleas advice me am I to use all these words or only
sum. Mike Flannery."
He sealed this with the feeling that he had done well indeed for a first
time. He had worked in "practise v. and n." and "exprest," and, if the
head office should complain that he had not used enough of the words in
the list, he could point to "polyp" and "estivate" and "etiology." It
was slow work, for he had to look up each word he used before writing
it, to see whether it was on the list or not, but generally it was not,
and that gave him full liberty to spell it in any of the three or four
simplified ways he was used to employing.
Then he turned to his letter to Mary O'Donnell. His buoyancy was
somewhat lessened in this second attempt by the necessity of looking up
each word as he used it, and he was working his way slowly, and had just
told her he was sorry he had "kist" her ("kist" was in the three
hundred), and that it had been because he had "fagot" himself ("fagot"
was in the list also), when a man entered the office and laid a package
on the counter.
Flannery slid from his stool and went to the counter. The man was Mr.
Warold of the Westcote Tag Company, and the package was a bundle of tags
that he wished to send by express. They were properly done up, for Mr.
Warold sent many packages by express. It was addressed to the "Phoenix
Sulphur Company, Armourville, Pa." It was marked "Collect" and "Keep
Dry." It was a nice package, done up in a masterly manner, and the tags
were to fill a rush order from the sulphur company.
Flannery pulled the package across the counter, and was about to drop it
on the scales when the "Collect" caught his eye, and he held out his
hand to Mr. Warold.
"Have ye brung th' receipt-book with ye?" he asked.
Mr. Warold felt in his coat-pocket. He had forgotten to bring the
receipt book, and Flannery drew a pad of blank receipts toward himself,
and dipped a pen into the ink. Then he looked at the address.
"'Pho-_e_-nix,'" he read slowly. "That do be a queer sort av a worrd,
Mr. Warold. 'Pho-_e_-nix!' Is it a man's name, I dunno?"
"Feenix," pronounced Mr. Warold, grinning.
Flannery was writing carefully with his tongue clasped firmly between
his teeth, but he stopped and looked up.
"'T is an odd way t' spell a worrd av that same pronownciation," he
said, and then, suddenly, he laid down his pen and turned to the list
of three hundred words that was pasted beside his desk.
"Oh, ho!" he exclaimed, when he had run his finger down the list, and
then he ran it still farther and said it again, and more vigorously, and
turned back to Mr. Warold. He shook his head and pushed the package
across to Mr. Warold.
"Tek it back home, Mr. Warold," he said, "and change th' spellin' of th'
worrds on th' address av it. 'T is agin th' rules av th' ixpriss company
as it is. There be no 'o' in th' feenix av th' Interurban Ixpriss
Company. P-h-e-n-i-x is th' improved and official spellin' av th' worrd,
and th' rules av th' company is agin lettin' any feenixes with an 'o' in
thim proceed into th' official business av th' company. And th' same of
that 'Sulphur' worrd. It has been improved and fixed up accordin' to
gineral order number sivin hunderd and noineteen, and th' way t' spell
it is 'S-u-l-f-u-r,' and no other way goes across th' counter av th'
ixpriss company whilst Mike Flannery runs it. And th' ixpriss company
will have none of your 'Armourville,' Mr. Warold. There be no 'u' in th'
worrd as 'tis simplified by th' order av th' prisidint av th'
Interurban."
Mr. Warold looked at the package and then at Flannery, and gasped. He
was slow to anger, and slow in all ways, and it took him fully two
minutes to let Flannery's meaning trickle into his brain. Then he pushed
the package across to Flannery again and laughed.
"That is all right," he said. "I read all about the simplified spelling
in the papers, and if your company wants to adopt it, it is none of my
business, but this has nothing to do with that. This is the name of a
company, and the name of a town, and companies and towns have a right to
spell their names as they choose. That--why, everybody knows that!"
"Sure they have th' right," admitted Flannery pleasantly, but pushing
the package slowly toward Mr. Warold; "sure they have! But not in th'
ixpriss office av th' Interurban. 'T is agin th' rules t' spell any
feenixes with an 'o' in th' ixpriss office, or any sulphurs with a 'ph,'
or any armours with a 'u.' Thim spellin's and two hunderd an'
ninety-sivin more are agin th' rules, and can't go. Packages that has
thim on can't go. Nawthin' that has thim in thim or on thim or about
thim can't go. Gineral order number sivin--"
"Look here," said Mr. Warold slowly. "I tell you, Flannery, that those
words are the names of a company--"
"An' I tell ye," said Flannery, holding the package away from him with a
firm hand, "that rules is rules, and gineral orders is worse than rules,
an' thim spellin's can't go."
Mr. Warold flushed. He put his hand opposite to Flannery's hand on the
package and pushed with an equal firmness.
"I offer this package for shipment," he said with a trace of anger
beginning to show in his voice. "I offer it to you just as it is;
spelled as it is; and without change or anything else. This express
company is a common carrier, under the Interstate Commerce Law, and it
cannot refuse to take this package, spelling or no spelling. That is the
law!"
"I have no quarrel with th' intercommerce state law, Mr. Warold, sir,"
said Flannery with dignity, "and 'tis none of my business, sir. But th'
spellin' of th' English language is, for 't is my duty by gineral order
number sivin hunderd and noineteen t' spell three hundred worrds with
th' proper simplification, and spell thim I will, and so will all that
does business with Mike Flannery from sivin A.M. till nine P.M. Worrds
that is not in th' three hunderd ye may spell as ye please, Mr. Warold,
for there be no rule agin it, and in conversation or correspondince with
Mike Flannery, before th' hour av sivin and after th' hour av nine, ye
may spell as ye please, and I will do th' same, for thin I am off duty;
but durin' th' office hours th' whole dang list from 'abridgment' t'
'wrapt' must be spelled accordin' t' orders. Yis, sir, 'polyp' and
'dactyl' and th' whole rist av thim. So tek th' package an' change th'
address like a good man."
Mr. Warold glared at Flannery, and then turned to the door. He took one
or two stiff strides, and then turned back. Anger was well enough as a
luxury, but the Phoenix Sulphur Company had telegraphed for the tags,
and business was a necessity. The tags must go out by the first train.
He leaned over the counter and smiled at Flannery. Flannery glared back.