When Carrier Sheridan went to get his mail for the three-o’clock delivery, the little, square package was waiting there for him. He glanced at the address curiously. Registered mail was a rarity on his new route, which, as has been stated, comprised the poorest and most squalid portion of the district. The package was addressed to a Mr. Michael Harrington, who kept a saloon. Owen put it in his pouch and started out on his delivery tour. Fifteen minutes later he pushed aside the swinging doors of Harrington’s saloon, at the bar of which was a group of about ten men. “Howdy,” said Mr. Harrington genially, from behind the bar. “What’s the good word? Have a little drink of something, young feller? It’s my birthday to-day, and I’m standin’ treat.” “No, thanks,” said Owen, with a smile; “I’m on the water wagon. But I wish you many happy returns, just the same. Maybe I’ve brought you a birthday present.” He produced the small, square package, and his receipt slip. “Sign here, please.” “I guess it is a birthday present, all right,” said the saloon keeper, holding out his hand for the registered package. “It looks as if it might be the gold watch which my friend Bill Warren telephoned me he was sending. Yes, that’s what it is, all right. See, here’s Bill’s name written on the back.” He weighed the package in his hand. “Pretty light, though, to contain a watch, ain’t it?” he remarked. “I should say so,” said Owen. Mr. Harrington hastily tore open the wrapper and revealed a thin pasteboard box. Opening this, he found a flat, leather-covered watchcase. “It’s the watch, all right,” he said, turning with a grin to the group in the front of the bar. “Good old Bill. He’s the most generous feller I know. Ain’t it decent of him to have remembered my birthday like this?” He pressed the button which released the catch of the watchcase, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment and disgust as the lid flew open. “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 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.