“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.