Chapter VIII · A DOUBTFUL JOKE.

Later that day, three well-dressed middle-aged men entered a branch post office, downtown, and stepped up to the registry window. Handling a small, square package through the grille, one of them said to the clerk: “I wish to send this by registered mail. It’s a birthday present to a friend of mine. Is it sure to get there this afternoon?”

“Oh, yes,” the clerk assured him, taking the package and making out a receipt; “it’ll be uptown in an hour, and go out on the three-o’clock delivery.”

Into the registered-mail sack went the little, square package, and soon it was on its way to the general post office.

Here the sack was opened, its contents rapidly sorted, and the little, square package placed, along with several other packages, in a smaller sack which was sent speeding uptown to Branch X Y.

When Carrier Sheridan went to get his mail for the three-o’clock delivery, the little, square package was waiting there for him.

He glanced at the address curiously. Registered mail was a rarity on his new route, which, as has been stated, comprised the poorest and most squalid portion of the district. The package was addressed to a Mr. Michael Harrington, who kept a saloon. Owen put it in his pouch and started out on his delivery tour.

Fifteen minutes later he pushed aside the swinging doors of Harrington’s saloon, at the bar of which was a group of about ten men.

“Howdy,” said Mr. Harrington genially, from behind the bar. “What’s the good word? Have a little drink of something, young feller? It’s my birthday to-day, and I’m standin’ treat.”

“No, thanks,” said Owen, with a smile; “I’m on the water wagon. But I wish you many happy returns, just the same. Maybe I’ve brought you a birthday present.” He produced the small, square package, and his receipt slip. “Sign here, please.”

“I guess it is a birthday present, all right,” said the saloon keeper, holding out his hand for the registered package. “It looks as if it might be the gold watch which my friend Bill Warren telephoned me he was sending. Yes, that’s what it is, all right. See, here’s Bill’s name written on the back.”

He weighed the package in his hand. “Pretty light, though, to contain a watch, ain’t it?” he remarked.

“I should say so,” said Owen.

Mr. Harrington hastily tore open the wrapper and revealed a thin pasteboard box. Opening this, he found a flat, leather-covered watchcase.

“It’s the watch, all right,” he said, turning with a grin to the group in the front of the bar. “Good old Bill. He’s the most generous feller I know. Ain’t it decent of him to have remembered my birthday like this?”

He pressed the button which released the catch of the watchcase, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment and disgust as the lid flew open.

“Empty!” he growled. “Now, what do you know about that?”

The group at the bar laughed uproariously. “The joke’s on you, Mike!” cried one. “It’ll cost you another round of drinks for being the goat.”

The saloon keeper scowled. “I ain’t so sure that it is a joke,” he growled, with a suspicious glance toward the letter carrier, who was just going out of the door. “I know my friend Bill Warren ain’t the kind of man to play a low-down trick like that on me. He wrote me that he was sendin’ me a gold watch for a birthday present, and I believe he meant it.”

He leaned over the bar and called to Owen: “Hey, you! One minute, there, young fellow!”

“Want me?” inquired the carrier, stepping back into the barroom.

“Yes. Are you quite sure that this here registered package ain’t been tampered with?”

“I’m quite sure that it hasn’t while it’s been in my hands, and I think you’ll find that the post office isn’t to blame,” replied Owen. “The government is mighty careful in the handling of its registered mail.

“But, of course, if you’re suspicious,” he added, “you can come around and see the superintendent and ask for an investigation. Before I did that, though, if I were you, I’d get into communication with the sender and ask if the case really contained a watch when he mailed it.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Harrington. “I’ll get Bill on the phone right now.”

Although he didn’t consider that it was really any concern of his, Owen waited while the saloon keeper telephoned, anxious to hear what the outcome would be.

A few minutes later Harrington turned from the phone, a grave look upon his face. “Just as I thought,” he said; “it ain’t a joke at all. Bill Warren says he’s willin’ to swear that he sent that watch—says he can produce two witnesses who saw him put the watch in the package, seal it up, and hand it in at the post-office registry window.”

He hurriedly donned his hat and coat. “That watch has been stole—stole from the U-nited States mails. That’s a serious offense. I’m goin’ right around to the post office to make a complaint. All these gentlemen here are witnesses that the watch wasn’t in the package when I opened it.”

The following day Carrier Owen Sheridan was placed under arrest by two United States post-office inspectors.

“We want you, Sheridan,” they said, accosting him in the doorway of Branch X Y, as he came back from his noon-delivery tour.

“Want me? What for?” he demanded, in great astonishment.

“For robbing the mails. No use throwing any bluff; we’ve got you dead to rights.”

“I suppose this has to do with that watch which was missing from the registered package yesterday,” said Owen calmly. “But why suspect me in particular? The package passed through many hands while in the post office.”

“Yes, but only one pair of hands opened it and stole its contents,” was the grim retort, “and those hands were yours, Mr. Sheridan. Otherwise, how could the pawn ticket have got into your trunk?”

“The pawn ticket?” repeated Owen blankly.

“Yes. We have just come from your boarding house. We went there to look your room over; and we found—this.”

The inspector took from his pocket a pawn ticket for a gold watch, and held it before the astonished mail carrier’s eyes.

“The watch this ticket calls for has already been identified as the watch which was stolen from the package, and we found this in your trunk. It looks very much as if you’re going to exchange that gray uniform for a suit of stripes, Carrier Sheridan.”

TO BE CONTINUED.