ch of two
rates applies to a shipment, he shall charge the larger. The con-sign-ey
may file a claim for the overcharge.' In this case, Misther Morehouse,
I be in doubt. Pets thim animals may be, an' domestic they be, but pigs
I'm blame sure they do be, an' me rules says plain as the nose on
yer face, 'Pigs Franklin to Westcote, thirty cints each.' An' Mister
Morehouse, by me arithmetical knowledge two times thurty comes to sixty
cints."

Mr. Morehouse shook his head savagely. "Nonsense!" he shouted,
"confounded nonsense, I tell you! Why, you poor ignorant foreigner, that
rule means common pigs, domestic pigs, not guinea pigs!"

Flannery was stubborn.

"Pigs is pigs," he declared firmly. "Guinea-pigs, or dago pigs or Irish
pigs is all the same to the Interurban Express Company an' to Mike
Flannery. Th' nationality of the pig creates no differentiality in the
rate, Misther Morehouse! 'Twould be the same was they Dutch pigs or
Rooshun pigs. Mike Flannery," he added, "is here to tind to the expriss
business and not to hould conversation wid dago pigs in sivinteen
languages fer to discover be they Chinese or Tipperary by birth an'
nativity."

Mr. Morehouse hesitated. He bit his lip and then flung out his arms
wildly.

"Very well!" he shouted, "you shall hear of this! Your president shall
hear of this! It is an outrage! I have offered you fifty cents. You
refuse it! Keep the pigs until you are ready to take the fifty cents,
but, by George, sir, if one hair of those pigs' heads is harmed I will
have the law on you!"

He turned and stalked out, slamming the door. Flannery carefully lifted
the soap box from the counter and placed it in a corner. He was not
worried. He felt the peace that comes to a faithful servant who has done
his duty and done it well.

Mr. Morehouse went home raging. His boy, who had been awaiting the
guinea-pigs, knew better than to ask him for them. He was a normal boy
and therefore always had a guilty conscience when his father was
angry. So the boy slipped quietly around the house. There is nothing so
soothing to a guilty conscience as to be out of the path of the avenger.
Mr. Morehouse stormed into the house. "Where's the ink?" he shouted at
his wife as soon as his foot was across the doorsill.

Mrs. Morehouse jumped, guiltily. She never used ink. She had not seen
the ink, nor moved the ink, nor thought of the ink, but her husband's
tone convicted her of the guilt of having borne and reared a