"She went over to Williamsburg, Mac told me, on No. 6. this morning. Don't worry, Joe," said Long jestingly; "I'm purty sure there ain't anybody else. Them boots got any bigger since I left? I jest had time to walk to the store from your place when the phone jingled, and I allowed it might be you, reportin' more heft to them boots o' Barton's. When they weigh a hundred pounds, you let me know. Price o' leather is goin' up, and"
The receiver went up, right on the hook, and with a bang. "Everybody seems to think they got a right to josh me," growled Summerfield. "Williamsburg is only fifteen miles east, and Lois went over there on an errand. She'll be back at eleven. I guess she thought it wasn't necessary to mention such a short trip. Do you think your uncle could tell us anything about what's the matter with those boots, Ruthven?"
"I don't see how he could. You're rid of the boots now, Summerfield, and you shouldn't let them worry you any longer."
"Plague take it all!" said the agent. "I'm nervous. I've got a feeling that something is about to happen. You see, I"
He broke off abruptly. A little man in a derby hat and wearing side whiskers came briskly in at the door.
"Why, hello, Mr. Harrington!" called Summerfield.
"Hello!" was the reply, with a short nod. "How's everything. Summerfield?"
"About as usual."
Harrington made himself perfectly at home. Walking around behind the counter, he removed his derby hat and hung it on a nail; then he drew from his pocket a black silk skullcap and pulled it carefully down over a head prematurely bald. Next, he got out of his coat, hung it under his derby, and, taking out his cuff buttons, turned up his shirt sleeves. All the while he was taking stock of Ruthven, for the company did not like to have outsiders hanging around its offices.
Summerfield noted the glances. "Mr. Harrington," said he, "my friend Mr. Lewis Ruthven."
"No relation of Emmet K. Ruthven, I suppose?" queried Harrington.
"Emmet K. happens to be his father," said the agent.
At once the traveling agent thawed. Emmet K. Ruthven was a name to conjure with.
"The dickens!" gasped Harrington, holding out his hand. "This is a pleasure, believe me. Your father, sir, has built more railroads in the West than any other contractor in the country."
Ruthven shook the offered hand. He was not the one, however, to sound his father's praises. Not that he did not admire Emmet K.'s achievements, for he did tremendously; but he preferred to let others blow the trumpet.
Harrington, greatly mellowed by meeting this son of a great man, went into the cage. Summerfield was about to follow him and get the books and documents out of the safe when the telephone bell rang. He halted to answer the call. As before, Ruthven was able to hear what came over the wire.
"Who's this?" queried the agent crisply.
"Al," was the response. "I'm at the depot. Say, Joe, what d'you think?'
The driver had received a jolt of some sort, that was evident. His voice was jerky and hoarse with excitement.
"What do you want?" demanded Summerfield sharply. That was no time for persiflage. Harrington was there, and he had eyes and ears for all that was going on.
"It's about that Barton package. When I picked it up to put it on the truck, it seemed heavier than it ought to, so I jest toted it into the baggage room and weighed it."
"How much did it weigh?"
