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?"