Chapter II: Summoned by the Boss

Owen Sheridan’s comrades had not been guilty of exaggeration in warning the young man of the danger he ran in antagonizing Boss Coggswell. Great reforms have been effected in the United States postal service since the time when Sheridan entered the department, and politicians of Samuel J. Coggswell’s ilk are no longer able to terrorize and corrupt the employees by means of a “pull” at Washington.

A certain famous post-office investigation resulted in the indictment of many big and little postal officials, and the laying bare of a startling system of fraud, corruption, and official misconduct; and made it, happily, a thing of the past; but before that big house-cleaning occurred, the power of the political boss was a thing to be feared by every carrier and clerk in the department.

Owen was not greatly disturbed by the warnings. Young, optimistic, self-confident, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that the big career he had mapped out for himself in the department could be checked or affected merely by his refusal to buy a ticket to a political picnic.

The idea appeared preposterous. He would succeed, he told himself confidently, in spite of the antagonism of Samuel J. Coggswell and his lieutenant, Jake Hines. He was painstaking, a hustler, and keen of mind; these qualities, he felt sure, were bound to win his promotion in time--even without any politician’s pull.

“No, I’m not worrying much about Mr. Coggswell,” he said to himself, with a smile, as he stood at his “case” in the post office, sorting the mail for his delivery route, the morning after his encounter with Jake Hines. “But what is worrying me a lot more,” he went on, with a frown, “is this confounded---- By Jove! Here’s another one of ’em now!”

The cause of his emotion was an envelope which had just turned up in the pile of mail he was sorting. For several minutes his long, nimble fingers had been going through the heap of letters with such speed and dexterity that it seemed impossible that he could be separating and arranging them in rotation, according to the house numbers on his delivery route. He seemed scarcely to glance at the addresses on the envelopes; it appeared to be a purely mechanical operation.

Although there was nothing about this particular white envelope to make it conspicuous, Owen recognized it as soon as it turned up. With a look of deep disgust on his face he withdrew it from the pile.

“This is the fifth he has sent her in the past week,” he muttered. “I wonder who the fellow is, and what he is to her. I wish I knew.

“But, of course, I wouldn’t do anything like that,” he added hastily, ashamed of the unspoken thought. “It is mighty tough, though, to have to deliver your rival’s letters to the girl you love. To suspect that there is a rival is bad enough; but to have to be the bearer of his confounded letters is certainly rubbing it in.”

Uncle Sam’s men in gray are supposed to be mere automatons when it comes to delivering mail. One of the rules of the department is to the effect that carriers must not indulge in any unnecessary conversation while covering their routes; and, of course, they are not supposed to ask any questions or betray any curiosity concerning the letters they carry.

Owen Sheridan was well up on the rules and regulations, but he vowed, as he stepped out of the office to cover his route, that he was going to find out the significance of that letter before another hour had passed.

For thirty minutes he went briskly from house to house, stuffing mail into letter boxes, ringing each bell, blowing his whistle in every vestibule he visited; then, having finished his row of flat houses and private dwellings on the side street, he swung into the avenue and stopped outside a store, on the window of which was the sign, in gilt lettering: “Walter K. Sammis, Real Estate and Insurance.”

For a second he stood on the sidewalk as though afraid to go in. Then he drew a long breath and entered, a half dozen letters in his hand, among them the envelope which was causing him so much concern.

A young woman who sat at a typewriter behind the barrier which divided the office in two, looked up from her machine, and greeted him with a cordial smile.

“Good morning,” she said. “You’re a little late to-day, aren’t you? I’ve been waiting impatiently for you--I mean the mail, for the past ten minutes.”

She was a very pretty girl. Her hair was dark, her eyes were brown and very large and bright, her cheeks bewitchingly pink. The young carrier thrilled as he looked at her.

“Yes, the mail is kind of late this morning, Miss Worthington,” he said awkwardly. “I’ve got an unusually big delivery to-day.” He held out the bunch of letters in his hand. “Here are five for the boss and one for you.”

He watched her face anxiously as she extended her hand for the mail. His own grew dark as he saw her eyes light up at the sight of the handwriting on the envelope addressed to her.

“You--you seem to be getting an awful lot of mail from Chicago lately,” he remarked gloomily.

She nodded and smiled brightly. “Yes, I am very fortunate. This is the fifth this week.”

“And all from the same fellow!” he exclaimed, with a bitter laugh.

“Why, how do you know that?” she demanded, looking at him quizzically from under her long lashes.

“Oh, don’t you suppose I can recognize the handwriting?” was his sullen reply.

“Really?” She laughed. “I didn’t think you letter carriers were so smart. Considering the thousands of letters you must handle in the course of a week, I should think it would be impossible for you to remember the handwriting of each----”

“I’d like to know who he is!” Owen broke in impulsively.

“Why, really, Mr. Sheridan!” she exclaimed. “I think you are rather impertinent. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the contents of the letters you handle do not concern you at all. Your duty is to deliver mail, and it ends there.”

Her tone was one of great indignation, but there was a merry twinkle in her eye. He was so dejected, however, that he did not notice the twinkle.

“The contents of that particular letter do concern me very much, Miss Worthington,” he returned doggedly. “As a letter carrier, I admit I have no right to ask you any questions; but as a man--well, I’ve got to know what that fellow is to you. I’ve got to know what chance I stand against him. I’ve been suffering the whole week--ever since the first of those confounded letters made its appearance, and I can’t stand it any longer.”

Then, before he realized what he was doing, Owen Sheridan was blurting out a proposal of marriage. The words came impulsively from his lips. When he entered the real-estate office five minutes previously, he hadn’t the slightest intention of taking such a decisive step.

He was in love with the girl, to be sure, and for several weeks past had been telling himself that some day he would ask her to be his wife. But he had also told himself that the day was far off. He was not in a position to think of marrying as yet. He had been in the postal service for less than a year, and consequently was receiving only six hundred dollars per year.

To marry on six hundred a year--less than twelve dollars per week--looked much too difficult. And out of this modest wage, too, he had to buy his uniforms--complete outfits for both summer and winter wear. He would have to work for at least five years more before he attained the rank of fifth-grade carrier and a salary of eleven hundred dollars, on which he could support a wife.

For this reason he had hesitated to speak out before; but now jealousy, aroused by those letters from Chicago, forced the words from his lips.

The blood rushed to Dallas Worthington’s cheeks as she listened to him. “You--you want me to marry you?” she gasped. “You can’t mean it. Why, you scarcely know me at all!”

“Scarcely know you?” he protested. “Haven’t I been seeing you every day for the past six months?”

“Yes; but only when you’ve come in here to bring the mail. You can’t learn enough about a girl to make up your mind that----”

“Well, it isn’t my fault that I haven’t seen you after office hours,” he protested. “I’ve asked you often enough to let me take you out or call at your boarding house, but you’ve always turned me down.

“But, anyway,” he went on earnestly, “I know you well enough to feel sure that you’re the only girl for me. Why, I’m so crazy about you, that on deliveries when there hasn’t been any mail for this address, I’ve delivered the wrong letters here on purpose, just so as to have an excuse for dropping in and seeing you.”

The girl laughed. “Oh! So that’s why this office is always getting other people’s mail. I’ve often wondered how you could be so careless.”

“Isn’t there any chance for me, Miss Worthington?” the young carrier asked pleadingly, as he glanced at the clock on the wall of the real-estate office, and suddenly realized that if he dallied there much longer there would be complaints all along his route; for the bag suspended from his shoulder was still half full of undelivered mail, and people in New York City are very particular about getting their letters on time.

“I don’t ask you to marry me now,” he went on hastily. “I couldn’t do it even if you were willing, for I’m not making enough money. The United States government pays its postal employees poorly at the start. I guess there isn’t another branch of the Federal civil service where a fellow has to do so much for so little pay.”

“Why don’t you get out and go into something else?” she asked. “I’ve often wondered why a bright fellow like you should be satisfied with such a small job.”

“I want to be a post-office inspector,” he answered. “That’s the goal which tempted me into entering the service. Those fellows earn good money, and I’ve always had a liking for detective work. You can rest assured that I don’t intend to remain a carrier very long. To be promoted to the secret-service branch of the department is my ambition, and I feel confident that I’ll be able to realize it.”

“I feel sure you will,” the girl said softly, with a quick glance at his earnest face. “And--and I’ll wait for you, Owen--until you’re in a position to get married.”

“You will?” he exclaimed joyously. “I didn’t expect such luck. Then, those letters from Chicago----”

“Were from my brother,” she answered, with a laugh. “He’s two years younger than I, and he’s always getting into scrapes. He’s in another one now, and he needs money; that’s why he’s been writing so frequently the past week.”