ton package for the night. As he picked it up to take it to the storeroom, he gave an exclamation of astonishment. Turning on an electric light over the scales, he proceeded to weigh the package. Then he yelled, and the other two came hurrying out.
"What's the matter, Joe?" asked Lois, alarmed.
"Look at this, will you?" returned the agent. "Both of you look. Tell me, on your sacred honor, what does that package weigh?"
"Nine pounds," said Ruthven, studying the scales.
"Exactly nine pounds," seconded Lois.
CHAPTER III.
"JEST BOOTS."
SUMMERFIELD drew his hand across his eyes. "I wonder if I'm crazy," he gasped, "or if this is just a plain case of witchcraft? That package weighed six pounds when it was first brought in; then it weighed eight; then six again; and now you tell me it's nine. What's the answer?"
"The answer is," said Ruthven, "that you probably made a mistake in weighing the package when it was first brought in."
"Al took it in and weighed it," returned Summerfield.
"Then it was Al's error, right at the start."
"I weighed it carefully while Al was out, and it weighed eight pounds. When he came back, we both weighed it, and it weighed six pounds. There's no way of getting around that. Al's eyes and mine couldn't be deceived at the same time, any more than three pairs of eyes can be fooled right now."
"H'm!" mused Ruthven thoughtfully. "Maybe there's another package in the office similar to this one and you've been getting them mixed up?"
"No, there is only one package for Barton, at Dry Wash, and that's it, there on the scales. There'd have to be three packages in order to get three different weights."
Ruthven, his interest suddenly intensified, took the parcel up in his hands. "So this is for Uncle Tom, eh?" he remarked. "What is it?"
"Blamed if I know. Consignors are Long & McKenzie. Barton often sends here for stuff he can't get in Dry Wash."
"Then I'll tell you, Summerfield," asserted Ruthven; "there's something wrong with your scales. Scales go wrong once in a while, you know. Why, I've heard how crooked sports, weighing a pugilist in at a prize fight, would stick a quarter to the under side of a weight with a piece of gum, making a hundred-and-sixty-five-pound man weigh in at one hundred and forty-five though every"
"There could be no tampering of that sort in this office," interrupted Summerfield. "Al Reeves is as square as a die; and what would be the use of monkeying with the weight of a parcel like that, anyhow? And I'm sure of these scales; but, just to make assurance doubly sure, I'll look them over."
This he did, and he even went so far as to use a feather duster. The result was not changed, however. The Barton package still weighed nine pounds.
"Try it on the Fairbanks, over there," suggested Ruthven, indicating a large platform scales on the other side of the room. The arm of the Fairbanks hung at a nice balance with the weight in the nine-pound notch.
"That's the weight, all right," declared Ruthven, puzzled; "it has always been the weight, too. A fellow has got to use reason, Summerfield, and that's what reason tells us. This six-pound and eight-pound stuff must be all flapdoodle."
Summerfield grinned in his bewilderment. "I'd like to hear you tell Al that
