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."