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.
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