He had imagined that Coggswell would be like this; but the face which looked at him from the painting was one of refinement; the forehead was broad and high, the features were regular, the mouth was curved in a kind, almost benevolent, smile. Unless the artist had unduly flattered him, Boss Coggswell looked very much like a gentleman, and a very pleasant sort of gentleman at that. The young man who had gone to announce Owen’s arrival to the boss soon returned and beckoned to the letter carrier to follow him. He led the way through a billiard room, and among the men playing at the tables Owen recognized Jake Hines, the man who had tried in vain to intimidate him into buying a ticket to the club outing. Although the carrier was not now wearing his gray uniform, the recognition was mutual. Owen could tell that by the scowl which came to Hines’ face at the sight of him, and, as he passed the table at which the politician was playing, he heard him mutter something under his breath which sounded like “fresh young Aleck.” Up a flight of stairs which led to a door marked “Director’s Office--Private.” Owen’s guide conducted him. In response to a knock on this door, a deep, pleasant voice cried, “Come in!” and Owen found himself in a luxuriously furnished room, facing a rotund, smiling, middle-aged man who sat at a mahogany roll-top desk. One glance at Boss Coggswell convinced the letter carrier that the oil painting downstairs was an excellent portrait. The district leader certainly appeared to be a very pleasant man. It seemed hard to believe that he could be the kind of fellow who would persecute a humble post-office employee for refusing to give up five dollars for a ticket to a club outing. “Sit down, young man,” said Mr. Coggswell, motioning to a chair beside his desk. “You are Carrier Sheridan, I believe, and you have route number forty-eight?” “Yes,” answered Owen, inwardly wondering why the political leader should have taken the trouble to familiarize himself with the number of his delivery route. “I am informed,” went on Mr. Coggswell, with a gentle smile, “that you refused to buy a ticket to the annual chowder and outing of our association.” “Yes,” replied Owen, meeting his questioner’s gaze boldly. To himself he thought: “He certainly isn’t losing any time in getting down to business.” “And I am informed, also,” Boss Coggswell went on, still with the same gentle smile, “that you expressed an opinion that my method of selling tickets was closely akin to blackmail?” “I didn’t say exactly that,” returned Owen. “I don’t know what _your_ method of selling tickets may be; but I did say that if you instructed or sanctioned your followers to hold up government employees and threaten them with all sorts of dire disaster if they refused to buy those tickets, you were a blackmailer, and I had no use for you.” He looked Coggswell squarely in the eye. “And, moreover, I am still of the same opinion,” he added quietly.