It doesn't interest us any more. And another thing: You gave us a
receipt for that cat in good order; if it was damaged in transit it is
none of our affair, is it?"

"Owner's risk," said the Interurban clerk. "You know we only accept live
animals for transportation at owner's risk."

"That lets us out, then," said the Hibbert & Jones clerk. "Mrs. Warman
is the owner. Ring off, please."

Westcote is merely a suburb of New York, and mails are frequent, and
Mike Flannery found a letter waiting for him when he opened the office
the next morning. It was brief. It said:

"Regarding cat, W.B. 23645, this was sent at owner's risk, and Mrs.
Warman seems to be the owner. Cat should be delivered to her. We are
writing her from this office, but in case she does not call for it
immediately, you will keep it carefully in your office. You had better
have a veterinary look at the cat. Feed it regularly."

Mike Flannery folded the letter slowly and looked down at the cat.
"Feed it!" he exclaimed. "I wonder, now, was that a misprint fer
fumigate it, fer that is what it will be wantin' mighty soon, if I know
anything about deceased cats. I wonder do thim dudes in New Yorrk be
thinkin, th' long-haired cat is only fainted, mebby? Do they think they
see Mike Flannery sittin' be th' bedside av th' cat, fannin' it t' bring
it back t' consciousness? Feed it! Niver in me life have I made a
specialty av cats, long-haired or short-haired, an' I do not be
pretindin' t' be a profissor av cats, but 'tis me sittled belief that
whin a cat is as dead as that wan is it stops eatin'."