Pigs is Pigs | Page 4

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 boy, and
she knew that whenever her husband wanted anything in a loud voice
the boy had been at it.
"I'll find Sammy," she said meekly.
When the ink was found Mr. Morehouse wrote rapidly, and he read the
completed letter and smiled a triumphant smile.
"That will settle that crazy Irishman!" he exclaimed. "When they get

that letter he will hunt another job, all right!"
A week later Mr. Morehouse received a long official envelope with the
card of the Interurban Express Company in the upper left corner. He
tore it open eagerly and drew out a sheet of paper. At the top it bore the
number A6754. The letter was short. "Subject--Rate on guinea-pigs," it
said, "Dr. Sir--We are in receipt of your letter regarding rate on
guinea-pigs between Franklin and Westcote addressed to the president
of this company. All claims for overcharge should be addressed to the
Claims Department."
Mr. Morehouse wrote to the Claims Department. He wrote six pages of
choice sarcasm, vituperation and argument, and sent them to the Claims
Department.
A few weeks later he received a reply from the Claims Department.
Attached to it was his last letter.
"Dr. Sir," said the reply. "Your letter of the 16th inst., addressed to this
Department, subject rate on guinea- pigs from Franklin to Westcote,
ree'd. We have taken up the matter with our agent at Westcote, and his
reply is attached herewith. He informs us that you refused to receive the
consignment or to pay the charges. You have therefore no claim against
this company, and your letter regarding the proper rate on the
consignment should be addressed to our Tariff Department."
Mr. Morehouse wrote to the Tariff Department. He stated his case
clearly, and gave his arguments in full, quoting a page or two from the
encyclopedia to prove that guinea-pigs were not common pigs.
With the care that characterizes corporations when they are
systematically conducted, Mr. Morehouse's letter was numbered, O.K'd,
and started through the regular channels. Duplicate copies of the bill of
lading, manifest, Flannery's receipt for the package and several other
pertinent papers were pinned to the letter, and they were passed to the
head of the Tariff Department.
The head of the Tariff Department put his feet on his desk and yawned.
He looked through the papers carelessly.
"Miss Kane," he said to his stenographer, "take this letter. 'Agent,
Westcote, N. J. Please advise why consignment referred to in attached
papers was refused domestic pet rates."'
Miss Kane made a series of curves and angles on her note book and
waited with pencil poised. The head of the department looked at the

papers again.
"Huh! guinea-pigs!" he said. "Probably starved to death by this time!
Add this to that letter: 'Give condition of consignment at present.'"
He tossed the papers on to the stenographer's desk, took his feet from
his own desk and went out to lunch.
When Mike Flannery received the letter he scratched his head.
"Give prisint condition," he repeated thoughtfully. "Now what do thim
clerks be wantin' to know, I wonder! 'Prisint condition, 'is ut? Thim
pigs, praise St. Patrick, do be in good health, so far as I know, but I
niver was no veternairy surgeon to dago pigs. Mebby thim clerks wants
me