Flannery pulled the package across the counter, and was about to drop it
on the scales when the "Collect" caught his eye, and he held out his
hand to Mr. Warold.
"Have ye brung th' receipt-book with ye?" he asked.
Mr. Warold felt in his coat-pocket. He had forgotten to bring the
receipt book, and Flannery drew a pad of blank receipts toward himself,
and dipped a pen into the ink. Then he looked at the address.
"'Pho-_e_-nix,'" he read slowly. "That do be a queer sort av a worrd,
Mr. Warold. 'Pho-_e_-nix!' Is it a man's name, I dunno?"
"Feenix," pronounced Mr. Warold, grinning.
Flannery was writing carefully with his tongue clasped firmly between
his teeth, but he stopped and looked up.
"'T is an odd way t' spell a worrd av that same pronownciation," he
said, and then, suddenly, he laid down his pen and turned to the list
of three hundred words that was pasted beside his desk.
"Oh, ho!" he exclaimed, when he had run his finger down the list, and
then he ran it still farther and said it again, and more vigorously, and
turned back to Mr. Warold. He shook his head and pushed the package
across to Mr.
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