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“Mr. Flash in?”

“Mr. Flash? Don’t know any such person, my son.”

“Why, he lives here!” continued the boy.

“Guess not, my son; I live here.”

“Well, this is the house, for I brought the things here.”

“What things?” says our friend, Flannigan.

“Why, the door mat, the brooms, buckets and brushes,” says little breeches.

Flannigan looks vacantly at his own door mat, for a minute, then says he–

“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?”

“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 Flannigan was the same in Dutch. “Would yees come in, sir,” and in comes the young man.