quickened his pace a little.

"What's th' matter?" he asked. "Locked out?"

Flannery stood up. He did not even say good morning. He ran his hand
into his pocket and pulled out the key. "Timmy," he said gently, almost
lovingly, "I have business that takes me t' th' other side av town. I
have th' confidence in ye, Timmy, t' let ye open up th' office. 'T will
be good ixperience fer ye." He cast his eye down the street, where the
car line made a turn around the corner. The trolley wire was shaking.
"Th' way ye open up," he said slowly, "is t' push th' key into th'
keyhole. Push th' key in, Timmy, an' thin turrn it t' th' lift. Wait!"
he called, as Timmy turned. "'Tis important t' turrn t' th' lift, not
th' right. An' whin ye have th' door open"--the car was rounding the
corner, and Flannery stepped into the street--"whin ye have th' door
open--th' door open"--the car was where he could touch it--"take th' cat
out behint th' office an' bury it, an' if ye don't I'll fire ye out av
yer job. Mind that!"

The car sped by, and Flannery swung aboard. Timmy watched it until it
went out of sight around the next corner, and then he turned to the
office door. He pushed the key in, and turned it to the left.

When Flannery returned the cat was gone, and so was Timmy. The grocer
next door handed Flannery the key, and Flannery's face grew red with
rage. He opened the door of the office, and for a moment he was sure the
cat was not gone, but it was. Flannery could not see the box; it was
gone. He threw open the back door and let the wind sweep through the
office, and it blew a paper off the desk. Flannery picked it up and read
it. It was from Timmy.