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.