"Funny how?"
"My very first day on the route, I started up to the seventh floor of that building to deliver them—and there wasn't any seventh floor. So I asked the old elevator man—"
"Howie Mallory. I know him. He's been there for years."
"I guess so. Anyway, he said it was O. K. just to give them to him. He showed me a paper, signed with the name of this outfit, by the secretary or something—"
"Orville K. Hesterson," Sam said.
"That was it—saying that all mail for them was to be delivered to the elevator operator until further notice. So I've been giving it to him ever since—there's a big bunch every day. Is something wrong, Sam? Have I pulled a boner? Am I going to be in trouble?"
"No trouble. I'm just checking—little job they asked me to do for them, seeing I'm retired." Sam was surprised at the glibness with which that fib came out.
Flanagan looked still more worried. "He said their office was being remodeled or something, so he was looking after their mail till they could move in."
"Sure. Don't give it another thought." Another idea occurred to him; he lowered his voice. "I oughtn't to tell you this, Flanagan, but every new man on a route, they kind of check up on him the first few weeks, see if he's handling everything O.K. I'll tell them you're doing fine."
"Hey, thanks. Thanks a lot."