“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.