nnigan, I don't know you, or owe you, of
course!"

"Well, that's a pooty spot o' work, _any how_;" growls our greasy
citizen, crumpling up his bill. "Where's Flash?"

"I can't possibly say," says Flannigan.

"You can't?"

"Certainly not."

"Don't know where he's gone to?" growls the butcher.

"No more than the man in the moon!"

"Well, he ain't goin' to dodge _me_, in no sich a way," says the
butcher. "I'll find him, if it costs me a bullock, you may tell him
so!--for _me!_" growls the butcher.

"Tell him yourself, sir; I've nothing to do with the fellow, don't know
him from Adam, as I've already told _you_," says Flannigan, closing the
door--the "greasy citizen" walking down the steps muttering thoughts
that breathe and words that burn!

Flannigan had just elevated himself upon the top of the centre table, to
hang up Mrs. F.'s portrait upon the parlor wall, when another ring was
heard of the bell. He called to his little daughter to open the door and
see what was wanted.

"Is your fadder in, ah?"

"Yes, sir, I'll call him," says the child, but before she could reach
the parlor, a burly Dutch baker marches in.

"Goot mornin', I bro't de _pills_ in."

"Pills?" says Flannigan.

"Yaw, for de prets," continues the baker; "nine tollars foof'ey cents. I
vos heert you was movin', so I tink maybees you was run away."

"Mistake, sir, I don't owe you a cent; never bought bread of you!"

"_Vaw's!_ Tonner a' blitzen!--don't owes me!"

"Not a cent!" says Flannigan, standing--hammer in hand, upon the top of
the table.

"_Vaw's!_ you goin' thrun away and sheet me, _ah_?"

"Look here, my friend, you are under a mistake. I've just moved in
here, my name's Flannigan, you never saw me before, and of course I
never dealt with you!--don't you see?"

"Tonner a' blitzen!" cries the enraged baker, "I see vat you vant, to
sheet me out mine preet, you raskills--I go fetch the con-stabl's, de
shudge, de sher'ffs, and I have mine mon-ney in mine hands!" and off
rushes the enraged man of dough, upsetting the various small articles
piled up on the bureau in the hall--by _wanging_ to the door.

Poor Flannigan felt quite "put out;" he came very near dashing his
hammer at the Dutchman's head, but hoping there was an end to the
annoyances he kept at work, until another ring of the bell announced
another call. The Irish girl went to the door; Flannigan listens--

"Mr. Flash in?"

"Yees!" says Biddy, supposing Flash and Flan