Chapter III · THE WIGGLING EAR.

Owen finished his deliveries and returned to the post office with a much lighter heart than when he had started out.

“She’s promised to wait for me, and I’m the happiest man in the world,” he said to himself with a smile. “And she won’t have to wait so very long, either. I’m going after that post-office inspector job hammer and tongs—and nothing can stop me from getting it.”

“Are you Carrier Owen Sheridan?” inquired a voice, suddenly breaking in upon his happy meditations.

“Yes,” answered Owen to the young man who addressed him.

“Well, you’re to come around to the club at nine-thirty this evening,” went on the latter, in a peremptory manner.

“The club! What club?” demanded Owen, staring hard at the speaker, whom he had never seen before.

“The district organization, of course,” replied the young man impatiently. “You didn’t suppose I meant the Elks or the Knights of Pythias, did you? You’re to come around to the headquarters of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association at nine-thirty sharp. The boss wants to see you.”

Having delivered this laconic message, the young man hurried away, and Owen stood on the threshold of the post-office entrance looking after him in great astonishment.

“Boss Coggswell wants to see me!” he muttered to himself. “I wonder what on earth for.”

Then a ray of enlightenment came to him, and he grinned broadly. “I guess Jake Hines has reported to him what I said about those tickets, and his majesty has sent for me to demand an explanation and an apology.”

A frown displaced the grin upon his countenance. “I’d like to see myself going,” he muttered. “If Coggswell wants any explanation, he’ll have to come to me; and, at that, I guess he won’t get a lot of satisfaction.”

But, after a half hour’s reflection, he changed his mind and decided that it might be just as well for him to heed the summons, insultingly peremptory as its delivery had been.

“If I don’t go he may think I’m afraid to face him,” he told himself; “and, besides, I’m mighty anxious to hear what he has to say.”

So, at nine-thirty that evening, Owen, being through with his day’s work, proceeded to the headquarters of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association, a four-story brownstone structure on a quiet residence street.

The quarters of the district organization were luxurious for a political club. Handsome oil paintings in big gilt frames lined the walls of the reception hall into which the letter carrier stepped.

One painting, which hung on the wall opposite the entrance, so that a visitor’s eye was bound to strike it as soon as he stepped through the door, was the full-length portrait of a dark, rather stout gentleman, who stood with his arms folded and his chin sunk upon his chest—a pose made famous by the late Napoleon Bonaparte, and since copied by many others.

A brass plate attached to the massive gilt frame of this portrait in oils bore the legend: “Honorable Samuel J. Coggswell.” By this token Owen knew that he was gazing upon the likeness of the man whom he had come to see. He had never before met or seen Boss Coggswell, and had no idea what he looked like; so, while he waited to be announced, he studied the picture with great interest.

He was greatly astonished at what he saw. From what he had heard and read of political bosses in general, he had formed the impression that they were all rough, thick-necked, illiterate men of a rough type.

He had imagined that Coggswell would be like this; but the face which looked at him from the painting was one of refinement; the forehead was broad and high, the features were regular, the mouth was curved in a kind, almost benevolent, smile. Unless the artist had unduly flattered him, Boss Coggswell looked very much like a gentleman, and a very pleasant sort of gentleman at that.

The young man who had gone to announce Owen’s arrival to the boss soon returned and beckoned to the letter carrier to follow him. He led the way through a billiard room, and among the men playing at the tables Owen recognized Jake Hines, the man who had tried in vain to intimidate him into buying a ticket to the club outing.

Although the carrier was not now wearing his gray uniform, the recognition was mutual. Owen could tell that by the scowl which came to Hines’ face at the sight of him, and, as he passed the table at which the politician was playing, he heard him mutter something under his breath which sounded like “fresh young Aleck.”

Up a flight of stairs which led to a door marked “Director’s Office—Private.” Owen’s guide conducted him.

In response to a knock on this door, a deep, pleasant voice cried, “Come in!” and Owen found himself in a luxuriously furnished room, facing a rotund, smiling, middle-aged man who sat at a mahogany roll-top desk.

One glance at Boss Coggswell convinced the letter carrier that the oil painting downstairs was an excellent portrait. The district leader certainly appeared to be a very pleasant man. It seemed hard to believe that he could be the kind of fellow who would persecute a humble post-office employee for refusing to give up five dollars for a ticket to a club outing.

“Sit down, young man,” said Mr. Coggswell, motioning to a chair beside his desk. “You are Carrier Sheridan, I believe, and you have route number forty-eight?”

“Yes,” answered Owen, inwardly wondering why the political leader should have taken the trouble to familiarize himself with the number of his delivery route.

“I am informed,” went on Mr. Coggswell, with a gentle smile, “that you refused to buy a ticket to the annual chowder and outing of our association.”

“Yes,” replied Owen, meeting his questioner’s gaze boldly. To himself he thought: “He certainly isn’t losing any time in getting down to business.”

“And I am informed, also,” Boss Coggswell went on, still with the same gentle smile, “that you expressed an opinion that my method of selling tickets was closely akin to blackmail?”

“I didn’t say exactly that,” returned Owen. “I don’t know what your method of selling tickets may be; but I did say that if you instructed or sanctioned your followers to hold up government employees and threaten them with all sorts of dire disaster if they refused to buy those tickets, you were a blackmailer, and I had no use for you.”

He looked Coggswell squarely in the eye. “And, moreover, I am still of the same opinion,” he added quietly.

For a few seconds the two men sat eyeing each other; then the political boss suddenly leaned forward in his chair and placed his plump hand upon Owen’s shoulder.

“Young man,” he said, “I like you for that. You make a hit with me. A fellow who is not afraid to speak out always has my admiration. I despise a man who will submit to injustice and tyranny for fear of losing his job, or the hope of getting a better one.”

To say that Owen was astonished by this unlooked-for treatment would be to put it mildly. He looked at the speaker incredulously. The suspicion entered his head that, perhaps, Coggswell was merely playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse—handing him these verbal bouquets first of all in order to give the more force to the abuse and threats which were about to follow.

“Yes,” the boss went on, “as soon as I heard that there was a young man at Branch X Y who had the courage to defy me, I made up my mind to send for him. I wanted to see what you looked like. I wished to find out whether you would have backbone enough to stand by what you had said to Jake Hines, or whether you would cringe and back water as soon as I put it up to you.”

Owen, not knowing what answer to make to these amazing words, smiled lightly and remained silent.

After a slight pause Boss Coggswell went on:

“I am pretty good at sizing up men, Mr. Sheridan, and I like your style. I should be pleased to have you join my organization. We need young men of your caliber in this district.”

“Thank you,” replied Owen, “but I don’t care to go into politics. And, besides, I am of the opposite party.”

“I like you for saying that, too,” declared the district leader warmly. “It is refreshing to meet a young man who is so loyal to his party that he won’t desert it even to advance himself. I am sorry that we can’t have you in our organization, Mr. Sheridan, but I am going to help you, nevertheless; I have taken a great fancy to you, and I am going to see that you get ahead.

“Tell me a little about yourself,” he went on. “How long have you been in the postal service?”

“Nine months,” answered Owen.

“And what is your ambition? Surely, a bright young chap like you doesn’t intend to remain a carrier all his life?”

“Not if I can help it,” replied Owen, with a smile. “I am looking for the job of post-office inspector. That’s what caused me to enter the service.”

“Ah!” murmured Coggswell; “a post-office inspector, eh? You know a good thing when you see it, don’t you? Got any pull?”

“No, I haven’t. But I’m studying hard, and I think I shall soon be able to take the examinations, and——”

A loud laugh from Boss Coggswell interrupted him. “The examinations? Pshaw! They won’t get you very far unless you’ve got a pretty strong pull, besides.”

He looked keenly at the young man, and lowered his voice a trifle as he went on:

“Now, as I presume you are aware, I have considerable influence at Washington. I think I shall use that influence to get you what you want, Mr. Sheridan.”

Owen stared at him incredulously. “Are you joking with me?” he demanded.

“Not at all. I am perfectly serious. As I said before, you have made a big hit with me, and I want to help you. To get you the post you are looking for will not be difficult. You may have to wait a little while, for there are no vacancies at present, but I give you my word that as soon as one occurs you shall be made an inspector.”

He rose from his chair and held out his hand to Owen to indicate that the interview was at an end.

“Well, good-by. I am very glad to have met you,” he said heartily. “Stick to your job as carrier for the present, and rest assured that it won’t be very long before you will be in the department’s secret service.”

Feeling as if he were in a dream, Owen rose and walked toward the door; but just as he was about to turn the handle, Coggswell’s voice halted him.

“Oh, by the way,” said the politician, in a careless tone, “there is one little point that I had almost forgotten. I think you cover route number forty-eight, do you not?”

“Yes, that is my regular route.”

Coggswell drew nearer to Owen and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Well, Sheridan, suppose there was somebody residing on your route whose mail I happened to be interested in? Suppose I had good reasons for wishing to examine this man’s letters, without his knowledge, of course. Suppose I asked you not to deliver anything to him until after it had first passed through my hands, or the hands of a trusted agent? What would you say to that, Sheridan?”

“I would tell you to go to blazes!” replied Owen promptly. “I am not a crook, Mr. Coggswell.”

So here was the nigger in the woodpile, at last. This was the meaning of all the soft words that had gone before, and the glittering promise which the politician had made to him.

“You are quite sure that you wouldn’t do me a little favor like that?” the boss went on, looking searchingly into the young man’s face.

“Quite,” answered Owen shortly.

“Not even if your promotion to the job of post-office inspector depended upon it? One good turn deserves another, you know.”

“I would rather remain a carrier all my life than stoop to such dirty work,” declared the carrier hotly.

“Better think it over, Sheridan. Don’t be rash. It would be a pity for a bright young fellow like you to have his career ruined for a little thing like this. You understand, of course, that there wouldn’t be the slightest danger of this man finding out that his mail had been tampered with? He would receive every letter in perfect shape. You wouldn’t be running any possible risk of discovery.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” retorted Owen. “Whether it’s safe to do so or not, nobody is going to tamper with any mail that’s in my charge.”

“You really mean that? You’re not making any grandstand play, eh?”

“I never meant anything more in my life, Mr. Coggswell.”

For several seconds the two men stood staring fixedly into each other’s eyes. Then, suddenly, Boss Coggswell once more placed his hand upon the carrier’s shoulder.

“It was only a joke, my boy. Or, rather, I should say, it was a little test. I wanted to determine your strength of character, and I must say that you have met the test remarkably well. I know now, for sure, that you are honest, and not to be tempted. Good-by.”

With a paternal pat on the shoulder the politician dismissed his visitor.

Owen was very thoughtful as he walked out of the clubhouse. He was not by any means convinced that the sinister proposition which had been made to him was nothing more than a harmless ruse to test his character.

In spite of the politician’s reassuring words, he felt sure that Coggswell had been very much in earnest about wanting him to hand over the mail of somebody on his route—that was the real reason he had been summoned to the clubhouse.

Owen recalled something which he had once heard somebody say regarding Samuel J. Coggswell—a very queer remark which had been made in his presence one day by a man who knew the boss well: “When you are talking with Sammy,” this man had said, “watch his ears carefully. If they begin to wiggle, look out for a crooked deal. Most men can’t move their ears without moving the rest of their heads besides, but Boss Coggswell can wiggle either ear at will. And, whenever he’s up to to some low trick, those ears of his always begin to move. He can keep the rest of his face as straight as a poker player; he can smile on you as sweetly as if he loved you like a brother, when all the time he hates you like poison; he can keep his voice as smooth as velvet; but he can’t make his ears behave when there’s anything crooked going on inside his head.”

Owen recalled these words now, as he stepped out of the clubhouse. And he recalled, too, that all the while Samuel J. Coggswell had been talking to him about that scheme to tamper with the United States mail, his ears had been moving up and down as if on springs. Therefore, Owen felt sure that there was mischief brewing.

TO BE CONTINUED.

UNEXPECTED.

He had been trying to impress upon the children in the school, in the capacity of a temperance lecturer, that though it was right and proper to relieve suffering and poverty, it was much better to find out the cause of it all—drink, of course—and remove that; and so with everything.

“Now,” he said, “suppose your father some morning came downstairs, and, on going to the cellar, found it flooded; what would he do first? Would he begin bailing the water out?”

“No, of course not.”

“Now, what would be the first thing he’d do?”

After a short silence, a shrill, piping voice cried out:

“Why, he’d carry on awful!”