The stout, red-faced, flashily dressed young man who had accosted the letter carrier on the street corner just as the latter was about to enter Branch Post Office X Y, scowled at this utterance.
“Oh, I’ll tell him, all right,” he retorted. “You can bet he’s goin’ to hear about your freshness. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Owen Sheridan,” was the prompt reply.
The other produced a pencil and memorandum book from his vest pocket and ostentatiously made a note of the name.
“Very well, Mr. Sheridan,” he sneered, “we’ll see how you’ll feel when you’re on Boss Coggswell’s black list. Guess he’ll make you lose that cocky air before long.”
He turned on his heel and sauntered off up the street. Carrier Sheridan, who had just returned from his delivery route, entered the post office and went upstairs to the “swing room”—the place in which the carriers lounge between tours—and joined a dozen of his gray-coated comrades who were indulging in a few minutes of idle chatter.
“I had a funny experience just now,” he said; “a chap buttonholed me on the corner and tried to sell me a ticket to the Samuel J. Coggswell Association’s annual chowder and outing. When I refused to come across with five dollars, and told him I had no desire to go to the outing, he got sore and began to threaten me with the wrath of Mr. Coggswell. He said it meant my finish in the postal service if I wouldn’t give up. Can you beat that for cast-iron nerve?”
Instead of the loud laugh which he expected, some of the carriers smiled sheepishly, and others looked grave.
“You don’t mean to say that you refused to take the ticket, son?” exclaimed “Pop” Andrews, a grizzled carrier, whose coat sleeve bore two gold stars, signifying that he had seen forty years’ service in the department.
“I certainly did refuse,” replied young Sheridan indignantly. “Do you suppose for a minute that I’d let any man blackmail me into giving up money for something I don’t want?[{42}]”