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.
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