Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 22/Number 2/The Fluctuating Package/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
ANOTHER JOLT.
MAYBE them boots gather moisture from the air," suggested the driver, with mock gravity, "and then maybe they dry out again. That's the how of it, Joe. They took on three pounds o' dampness last night, and then shed it this morning."
"If you'd dry up a little yourself, I'd like it mighty well!" growled Summerfield.
"Maybe they're seven-league boots, and full of hocus-pocus," went on Reeves, moving toward the front door with the package.
"There'll be a massacre around here if you don't quit!" yelled the agent darkly.
"There was somethin' I wanted to tell you," went on the driver from the door, "and I plumb forgot it till now. Lois McKenzie went east on Six, at eight-thirty. I saw her gettin' on the train."
"What!" exclaimed Summerfield.
Reeves repeated his statement. "Didn't you know?" he added. "She wasn't totin' any luggage, and like as not she has skipped town to get rid of the express agent." With which unfeeling comment the freckle-faced driver took himself off, climbed into his wagon, and drove away.
"I can't understand this," muttered Summerfield. "Lois never said a word last night about leaving town. There's something in the wind that I can't understand. Lois hasn't seemed at all like herself for a week or more."
"Bosh!" exclaimed Ruthven. "That's only your imagination, Summerfield!"
"Everything seems to be getting my goat the last few days," remarked the agent. "Even a pesky trifle like that Barton package gets me all up in the air. Well, I'm going to find out about Lois, right now."
He turned to the telephone and called for Long & McKenzie. Long answered, and Summerfield asked for McKenzie. Ruthven, leaning on the counter, was so close to the telephone that he could hear what came over the wire.
"Mac ain't here," said Long.
"This is Summerfield, at the express office. Can you tell me where I can find Mr. McKenzie?"
"He went down to the train to meet his daughter. She's comin' in on Seventeen."
"I didn't know till just a moment ago that Lois was out of town."
"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?"
"Ten pounds!"
"Whose imagination is working now?" jeered Summerfield. He could not help that comment, Harrington or no Harrington.
"That's all right, old man, but what shall I do?"
"Let it go with the rest of the stuff, of course," was the answer. "What're you bothering me for?" He banged the receiver on the hook.
"That Barton shipment gained four pounds between here and the depot, Ruthven," said Summerfield. "Al has pulled in his horns. I guess, by golly, it's getting him."
"What's that, what's that?" inquired Harrington. "A package gaining four pounds in weight between this office and the depot? Unheard of! Preposterous! What do you mean?"
"Rather mysterious thing, Mr. Harrington," returned Summerfield, as the distant whistle of Seventeen was heard, blowing for Burt City. "You know Thomas Barton, up at Dry Wash?"
"Of course! Everybody knows Tom Barton. He is Emmet K. Ruthven's brother-in-law,", and the traveling agent shot a friendly glance at Lewis. "What's Barton got to do with it?"
"He ordered a pair of boots from Long & McKenzie, here in Burt City; a certain kind of laced knee boots—gets a pair every summer, Mr. Long says. Reeves, the driver, took them in yesterday, too late for Seventeen, which carries the local stuff. The boots weighed six pounds."
"Pretty good weight, that, for a pair of boots. But go on!"
"I weighed 'em later, and they weighed eight pounds; then Reeves and I weighed them together, still later, and they were back to six pounds. Last evening they went up to nine pounds. Ruthven happened to be here at the time, and he'll bear me out. They weighed nine pounds last evening, didn't they, Ruthven?" he appealed.
"Certainly they did!" was the emphatic reply.
"This morning, Mr. Harrington, they were down to the original six pounds again."
The effect of all this upon Harrington was peculiar to say the least. He had started up from his chair with horror growing in his eyes. His lips were dry, and he moistened them with his tongue. Twice he tried to talk, but the words stuck in his throat. In the dead, dramatic silence, No. 17 was again heard in the distance, rolling westward.
Finally the traveling agent found his voice. "For Heaven's sake!" he gulped. "What else, Summerfield, what else? Speak quick, man!"
Both the agent and Ruthven were surprised at the traveling agent's show of consternation. "Why," faltered Summerfield, "what is there about"
"Tell me the rest of it!" shouted Harrington, bounding clear of the cage. "Go on!"
"There's not much else, sir," said Summerfield, pulling his wits together. "The package weighed six pounds when it left here, and Reeves, the driver, just phoned that the package seemed badly overweight when he started to put it on the truck, so he carried it into the baggage room and put it on the scales. He said it weighed ten pounds, but I told him to let it go forward according to waybill."
"The devil!" cried Harrington despairingly, hopping around like a Comanche Indian doing a war dance. "Phone the station for Reeves to hold out that Barton package!"
"It's already loaded and"
"Then, phone for the agent to stop the train!"
"Train's gone!"
Harrington hurdled the counter like an accomplished athlete, tore through the door, and was off through Burt City like a streak. He was in such a hurry that he never stopped to put on his coat. He had rushed away just as he was, in skullcap and shirt sleeves.
Ruthven stepped to the door to watch him. Without let or stay, the traveling agent was galloping for the railroad station. People in the street stopped to watch him with wonder. Presently Harrington whisked around a corner and was lost to sight.
Ruthven came back into the office. "What do you know about that!" he cried.
Summerfield was lying limply across the counter, his face white and his eyes filled with foreboding. He roused up a little as he met Ruthven's bewildered gaze.
"What have I done?" he inquired wildly. "Anything that I shouldn't? What was it hit Harrington so hard? Boots for Barton! Hanged if I can see how"
Just at that moment Reeves drove up to the walk in front, tumbled out of his wagon, and rushed in. "Ten pounds!' he cried. "By thunder, that's what it weighed! Ask the baggage agent! I made him look at the scales to make sure. Wouldn't it rattle your spurs, Joe? What's Harrington tearing down the street for? He passed me, goin' like a comet. Is it anythin' about that Barton package?"
"I should imagine so," returned Summerfield wearily.
"What about it? Don't be so blamed close-mouthed."
"You'll have to ask Harrington, Al," was the reply. "He's the only one who knows what's in the wind."