Mike Flannery On Duty and Off by Ellis Parker Butler
E >>
Ellis Parker Butler >> Mike Flannery On Duty and Off
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 15300-h.htm or 15300-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/3/0/15300/15300-h/15300-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/3/0/15300/15300-h.zip)
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.