The Postmaster Part 37

"Humph!" says he; "he looks pretty near knocked out himself. Why, he's all bent out of shape."

"Yes," I told him. "Ichabod's bent, but he's far from broke. And a tough old limb like him stands a lot of bendin'."

I was feelin' pretty good. With a square man like this Peters to look into matters, I cal'lated I'd be postmaster for a spell yet.

But that afternoon, about three o'clock, as we was inside the mail room, Mary at her desk, and Peters alongside of her, goin' over the books and papers, and me smokin' in a chair nigh the delivery window, Ike Hamilton walked into the store.

"Afternoon, Snow," says he, pert and important as ever, "I understand there's a registered letter for me. I s'pose it is part of your business to refuse to give it to the regular carrier and put me to the trouble of walkin' way down here."

"I s'pose 'tis," says I.

"Yes," he says. "Well, if you were as careful to put your partic'lar friends to the same inconvenience there might not be as much talk about you and your handlin' of this office as there is now."

"Oh, yes, there would," I told him. "There'd always be more talk than anything else where you lived, Ike. Want your letter, do you?"

He was mad, but he held in pretty well.

"I do-if gettin' it won't make you work _too_ hard," he says, sarcastic.

"I should hate to see you really work."

"Yes," I says, "the sight of work never was a joy to you, 'cordin' to all accounts. Well, here's your letter."

I reached down to the sortin' table where I'd laid the letter at noon time-and it wa'n't there.

I hunted that table over. "Mary," says I, "did you put that registered letter of Mr. Hamilton's away somewheres?"

She looked surprised and, it seemed to me, rather anxious.

"Why no!" says she; "I haven't touched it."

Whew!... Well, there was a lively hunt in that mail room for the next ten minutes, but it ended in nothin'.

Ike Hamilton's registered letter was _gone_!

CHAPTER XV-HOW IKE'S LOSS TURNED OUT TO BE MY GAIN

There's no use dwelling on unpleasantness. And there's no use tellin'

what Ike Hamilton said. I'd be liable to the law, if I did tell it, and, besides, I've been away from seafarin' so long that my memory for such language ain't as good as 'twas. Ike wa'n't only mad now: he was ha'f crazy, and pale and scared-lookin' besides. The interview ended by my takin' him by the arm and leadin' him to the door.

"You get out of here," I told him, "and I'll leave this door open so's to sweeten the air after you. That letter of yours has turned up missin'

and I'm mighty sorry. I'll find it, though, or die a-tryin'. Meanwhile, unless you can behave like a decent human bein'-which I doubt-you'll find it turrible unhealthy for you on these premises. Understand?"

I cal'late he understood, for he waited till he was out of reach afore he answered. Then he turned and snarled at me like a kicked dog.

"By the Almighty, Zeb Snow," he says, "this is the wust day's work _you_ ever did! That letter's wuth hundreds of dollars to me and I'll sue you for every cent. And, more'n that," he says, "this is the last straw that'll break your back as postmaster of this town. _You're_ done! and don't you forget it!"

I wa'n't likely to forget it-not to any consider'ble extent.

Well, all the rest of that day and for the next two days, Mary and Peters and I hunted high and low for that letter; but we couldn't find it. I was worried, Peters was worried, and Mary Blaisdell seemed the most worried of any of us. Ike Hamilton come in every few hours, and, though he bl.u.s.tered and threatened a whole lot, he kept a civil tongue in his head, rememberin', I cal'late, what I said to him when I showed him the door. Apparently he hadn't told any of his cronies about his loss, for n.o.body else said a word about it to me. This was queer, for I expected the news would be all over town by this time.

Peters asked a lot of questions and I done my best to satisfy him. I showed him the exact place where I laid the letter down afore I went to the front of the store to meet him, and he remembered, same as I did, that the door to the mail room was locked when we come back to it. And we'd stayed in that room together until Mary came and we went to dinner.

n.o.body but Mary and I had keys to the room, either.

Course I thought of Sim Kelley and how mad he was because I took the letter away from him, and Peters and I cross-questioned him pretty sharp. But he told a straight yarn and stuck to it. He hadn't seen the letter since I took it. He'd delivered the notice to Ike and Ike had said he'd call and get the letter that afternoon. Well, all that seemed to be true, and, besides, there was no way Sim could have got hold of the thing if he'd wanted to.

"No use," says I, when the questionin' was over and Sim had cleared out, protestin' injured innocence and almost cryin'. "No use," says I, "I cal'late he's tellin' the truth for once in his life. I guess his skirts are clear."

"Maybe so," says Peters. "His story is straight enough; but he don't look you in the face; I don't like that."

"That's nothin'," I said. "He'd have to get 'round the corner to look a body in the face, as cross-eyed as he is."

Mary Blaisdell spoke up then. "If this letter shouldn't be found at all, Mr. Peters," says she, "what effect would it have on Cap'n Zeb's position as postmaster?"

Peters was pretty solemn, and he shook his head.

"Well," he says, "to be perfectly frank with you, Cap'n, it might have consider'ble effect. From what I've seen of you and this office, generally speakin', my report to headquarters would be a very favorable one. Your records and accounts are straight and the place is neat and well kept. But your opponent's pet.i.tion charges that several letters have been lost already. This loss comes at a very bad time and it _might_ be considered serious."

I'd realized all this, but it didn't help me much to hear him say it. I didn't make any answer, but Mary asked another question.

"But if," she says, slow, "it should turn out that the Cap'n was not to blame at all? If someone else had lost that letter? He wouldn't be removed _then_?"

"No, certainly not. That is, not if my report counted for anything."

"I see," says she; and she didn't speak to us again that afternoon.

Peters, though, had more questions to ask. What sort of a letter was this, anyhow? And did I have any idea what was in it?

I told him that I didn't really know much, but, bein' a Yankee, I was subject to the guessin' habit. Ike Hamilton had been buyin' stocks up to Boston and this letter had a broker firm's name printed on the envelope.

My guess was that there was some certificates, or such, inside.

"I see," he says. "That would explain what he said about its value. So he's been speculatin', hey?"

"So Sim Kelley hinted. But where the money comes from I don't see. Old Ichabod don't furnish it, I'll bet a dollar. The old critter's got cramps in the pocketbook worse than he has in his back."

"That was the old feller you pointed out to me the other day," he says.

"I haven't seen him since. Where is he?"

"Back in bed with the rheumatiz, so I hear. Guess his cruise down town was too much for him."

Well, the rest of our talk didn't amount to much and I went home that night pretty blue and discouraged. I didn't care so much about bein'

postmaster, but it hurt my pride to be bounced for bad seamanship. I'd never wrecked a craft afore in my life.

Next mornin' I come to the store at my usual time, but Mary was late, for a wonder. When she did come she looked so pale and used up that I was troubled.

"Mary," says I, "what's the matter? Ain't sick, are you?"