“Empty!” he growled. “Now, what do you know about that?”
The group at the bar laughed uproariously. “The joke’s on you, Mike!” cried one. “It’ll cost you another round of drinks for being the goat.”
The saloon keeper scowled. “I ain’t so sure that it is a joke,” he growled, with a suspicious glance toward the letter carrier, who was just going out of the door. “I know my friend Bill Warren ain’t the kind of man to[{51}] play a low-down trick like that on me. He wrote me that he was sendin’ me a gold watch for a birthday present, and I believe he meant it.”
He leaned over the bar and called to Owen: “Hey, you! One minute, there, young fellow!”
“Want me?” inquired the carrier, stepping back into the barroom.
“Yes. Are you quite sure that this here registered package ain’t been tampered with?”
“I’m quite sure that it hasn’t while it’s been in my hands, and I think you’ll find that the post office isn’t to blame,” replied Owen. “The government is mighty careful in the handling of its registered mail.
“But, of course, if you’re suspicious,” he added, “you can come around and see the superintendent and ask for an investigation. Before I did that, though, if I were you, I’d get into communication with the sender and ask if the case really contained a watch when he mailed it.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Harrington. “I’ll get Bill on the phone right now.”
Although he didn’t consider that it was really any concern of his, Owen waited while the saloon keeper telephoned, anxious to hear what the outcome would be.