"Mike Flannery, esquire," it said. "Take youre old job. Im tired of the
express bisiness. Too much cats and missus Warmans in it. im going to
New York to look for a decent job. I berried the cat for you but no more
for me. youres truly."

Flannery smiled. The loss of Timmy did not bother him so long as the cat
had gone also. He turned to the tasks of the day with a light heart.

The afternoon mail brought him a letter from the New York office.
"Regarding W.B. 23645," it said, "and in answer to yours of yesterday's
date. In our previous communication we clearly requested you to have a
veterinary look at the cat. We judge from your letter that you neglected
to do this, as the veterinary would certainly have told you what to feed
the cat. See the veterinary at once and ask him what to feed the cat.
Then feed the cat what he tells you to feed it. We presume it is not
necessary for us to tell you to water the cat."

Flannery grinned. "An' ain't thim th' jokers, now!" he exclaimed. "'Tis
some smart bye must have his fun with ould Flannery! Go an' see th'
veterinary! An' ask him what t' feed th' cat! 'Good mornin', Misther
Pomeroy. Do ye remimber th' dead cat ye looked at yisterday? 'Tis in a
bad way th' mornin', sor. 'Tis far an' away deader than it was
yisterday. We had th' funeral this mornin'. What w'u'd ye be advisin' me
t' feed it fer a regular diet now?' Oh yis! I'll go t' th'
veterinary--not!"

He stared at the letter frowningly.

"An' 'tis not nicessary t' tell me t' water th' cat!" he said. "Oh, no,