“Yes,” answered Owen to the young man who addressed him. “Well, you’re to come around to the club at nine-thirty this evening,” went on the latter, in a peremptory manner. “The club! What club?” demanded Owen, staring hard at the speaker, whom he had never seen before. “The district organization, of course,” replied the young man impatiently. “You didn’t suppose I meant the Elks or the Knights of Pythias, did you? You’re to come around to the headquarters of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association at nine-thirty sharp. The boss wants to see you.” Having delivered this laconic message, the young man hurried away, and Owen stood on the threshold of the post-office entrance looking after him in great astonishment. “Boss Coggswell wants to see me!” he muttered to himself. “I wonder what on earth for.” Then a ray of enlightenment came to him, and he grinned broadly. “I guess Jake Hines has reported to him what I said about those tickets, and his majesty has sent for me to demand an explanation and an apology.” A frown displaced the grin upon his countenance. “I’d like to see myself going,” he muttered. “If Coggswell wants any explanation, he’ll have to come to me; and, at that, I guess he won’t get a lot of satisfaction.” But, after a half hour’s reflection, he changed his mind and decided that it might be just as well for him to heed the summons, insultingly peremptory as its delivery had been. “If I don’t go he may think I’m afraid to face him,” he told himself; “and, besides, I’m mighty anxious to hear what he has to say.” So, at nine-thirty that evening, Owen, being through with his day’s work, proceeded to the headquarters of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association, a four-story brownstone structure on a quiet residence street. The quarters of the district organization were luxurious for a political club. Handsome oil paintings in big gilt frames lined the walls of the reception hall into which the letter carrier stepped. One painting, which hung on the wall opposite the entrance, so that a visitor’s eye was bound to strike it as soon as he stepped through the door, was the full-length portrait of a dark, rather stout gentleman, who stood with his arms folded and his chin sunk upon his chest--a pose made famous by the late Napoleon Bonaparte, and since copied by many others. A brass plate attached to the massive gilt frame of this portrait in oils bore the legend: “Honorable Samuel J. Coggswell.” By this token Owen knew that he was gazing upon the likeness of the man whom he had come to see. He had never before met or seen Boss Coggswell, and had no idea what he looked like; so, while he waited to be announced, he studied the picture with great interest. He was greatly astonished at what he saw. From what he had heard and read of political bosses in general, he had formed the impression that they were all rough, thick-necked, illiterate men of a rough type.