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.
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