"Come in my man, I'll see if any such articles have come here, for us."
The boy walks into the hall, amid the barricades of yet unplaced household effects—for Flannigan had just moved in—and Flannigan calls for Mrs. F. The lady appears and denies all knowledge of any such purchases, or reception of buckets, brooms, and little breeches clears out.
In the course of an hour, a violent jerk at the bell announces another customer. Flannigan being at work in the parlor, answers the call; he opens the door, and there stands "a greasy citizen."
"Goo' mornin'. Mr. Flash in?"
"Mr. Flash? I don't know him, sir."
"You don't?" says the "greasy citizen." "He lives here, got this bill agin him, thirty-four dollars, ten cents, per-visions."
"I live here, sir; my name's Flannigan, 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?"