"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.
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