# Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 22/Number 2/The Fluctuating Package/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.
CLEARING THE SITUATION.
RUTHVEN!" exclaimed the express agent, glad of the diversion. "Say, you're just the fellow I want to see!"
"Oh, no!" said Reeves jeeringly. "Ruthven's not the fellow you want to see, Joe. You want to see a doctor. You're pickled—fifty-seven different ways."
"Get out of here," growled Summerfield, "or you'll miss that train!"
"Well, I'm not missin' any sleep because I can't see straight," scored the driver. And he winked at Ruthven as he went out of the door with an armful of bundles.
"What's the trouble?" Ruthven inquired.
"Funny mix-up in weights," said the agent. "But I guess it's one on me. It only goes to prove that a fellow can't be so wise all the time as he is just some of the time. What are you all dolled up for?" he inquired, taking note of Ruthven's unusual appearance.
Lewis Ruthven was a big fellow, and yet there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him. His shoulders were broad, his chest was deep, and he measured six feet in height. He had come from the East two months before, and had gone straight into the cattle country to the Barton Ranch south of Burt City.
It was known that Tom Barton was his mother's brother, and that he had come to Montana because he had had a disagreement with his father. How that got out, no one knew. Ruthven himself was not saying a word. He was just cheerfully taking life as he found it, and doing his best to make good on Uncle Tom's lower ranch. Already he had shown such an aptitude for "busting" bronchos and roping steers—and ​incidentally cleaning up on the ranch bully—that he had been promoted to be second in command under Hoover over that particular bunch of cattle and cattlemen.
As a general thing when he rode into Burt City, he wore a demoralized broad-brimmed hat, a flannel shirt that showed signs of hard usage, and fringed leather chaps. But now, as he stood in the front of the express office, he wore a sack suit of excellent cut and quality, and a straw hat. His was an appearance to delight the eye, so quiet and masterful and good looking was he.
"I thought the boys would kill me before I got away from the ranch," said Ruthven. "They tried to pull me out of the buckboard and muss me up, and we had a high old time generally; but," he added happily, "I didn't lose so much as a horn button."
"What's the cause of it all?" inquired Summerfield.
"Somebody asked me to do this; somebody whose word is law. Come to supper with me, Joe, and I'll tell you all about it. I want you to help."
"Come in at six, then, and we'll go to 'Ham-And's' for a feed. I've got to work to-night, though."
"Got to? I was hoping——"
"Somebody will be around here to check up the office before very long, and his word comes pretty near being law, too. I've got to be ready for him, Ruthven.
"Oh, well," said the other, "I can talk with you about this business of mine, anyhow. If you've no objections, I'll just sit here and read the paper until you're ready."
Summerfield gave him an easy-chair back of the counter; then he went to take the Barton package back to the storeroom, but changed his mind and decided to leave it out in front for further examination when he could find leisure.
Shortly before six, Reeves got back from the railroad station with a small truckload of stuff from the west. He would have taken the Barton package to the storeroom for the night, but the agent told him to leave it where it was.
"All right," agreed the driver cheerfully; "but it won't get any heavier there by the counter, Joe."
Hamilton Andrew Leffingwell owned and operated the best restaurant in Burt City. His place was known far and wide as "Ham-And's," which proved how harmony sometimes runs between a man's name and his business. To this place Ruthven and Summerfield repaired for a raid upon the bill of fare, getting a corner table where they could talk for their own benefit and not for that of Ham-And's other patrons.
"It's like this, Summerfield," confided Ruthven, as they ate. "You're pretty well acquainted with Miss Lois McKenzie, and I want an introduction."
Summerfield's heart grew faint. What chance would he have in the race for the hand of the fair Lois with that big, handsome Easterner pitted against him? "What's the idea?" he asked.
"A friend of mine—a very good friend of mine"—and Ruthven's gray eyes glowed brightly as he said it—"has written and asked me to call on Miss McKenzie. I know Miss McKenzie's father, in a way, but I would rather meet the young lady through you."
"Who is the friend that suggested this?" inquired Summerfield.
Ruthven drew a seal leather photograph case from the left inside pocket of his coat, opened it reverently, and held a lovely pictured face before the eyes of his friend. "The sweetest little girl in the world," he declared, with fine feeling, "and whenever she asks a favor of me it is as good as done. That is Miss Gwendolyn Arnold, Summerfield."
As the express agent peered into the beaming, earnest face across the table, all his vague fears took instant flight. Ruthven would not—could not—prove ​a rival. There could be no doubt that his affections were already anchored.
"Miss Arnold and Miss McKenzie were friends at Vassar College," explained Ruthven, "and I have been requested, as a friend of Miss Arnold, to make the acquaintance of Miss McKenize. Miss Arnold seems to have the idea that the rugged life of the ranch will make a barbarian out of me unless I have the, refining influences of feminine society.
"Bless her heart, Summerfield," he continued; "so long as I have such beautiful memories of her to cheer my mortal existence, nothing else is necessary to keep me in the straight and narrow way. But she has spoken, and I obey. It—it will give me a chance to write more frequently. I wonder if you get that?"
Impulsively Summerfield reached across the table and caught Ruthven's hand in a firm and understanding grip. "It will give me the greatest pleasure, old man," he answered. "We understand each other, I think."
Glances crossed, and smiles came to each face. "I think so," said Ruthven, with emphasis. "If you can't go with me to McKenzie's to-night, when can you go?"
"As I told you," went on Summerfield, "I am working this evening; but Lois said she would call on me at the office. She does that occasionally, when the grind keeps me rather late; and then I walk home with her. She dropped in to-day to tell me that she would see me at the office this evening."
"Bully!" exclaimed Ruthven. "You can do the formal thing, and then, later on, perhaps I can call with you at the house."
"That's the ticket exactly! By the way, Lois mentioned your name when she saw me. Miss Arnold has written to her about you, so you're expected."
"That couldn't be better. When do you want me to show up at the office?"
"Make it nine o'clock."
"I'll be there."
Supper over, Ruthven went to the hotel to write some letters, and Summerfield returned to his office and got busy with his books and papers. At eight-thirty Lois came, and sat near while he finished his labors. Then, when he had put away his books, he went over to the drug store for two dishes of ice cream. They preferred eating the ice cream comfortably by themselves in the office. Summerfield then told Lois about Ruthven.
"You'll like him," he declared. "Everybody does. He has a way of taking a person by storm, you might say. He is a college man, and his father is rich and contracts for improvements of various kinds all over the world. Nobody seems to know just why the son is putting in his time in this out-of-the-way corner of the country, but he's surprising everybody by the way he does things on Barton's Ranch No. 2."
"He helped out an unfortunate friend in the East," said Lois, "and got dismissed from a School of Mines on account of it. His father sent him to Montana—by way of punishment, I suppose. Also his father cut down his usual allowance, and Mr. Ruthven then refused to take any allowance at all." Her eyes sparkled. "That is the sort of man he is, Joe."
"Paragon, eh?" returned Joe grumpily.
She laughed, and leaned forward to box his ears gently. "I can tell, from the way Gwen writes, just how the land lies," she went on. "Lewis Ruthven is her knight, without fear and without reproach. We must do what we can to make life pleasant for him out here, Joe."
Before Summerfield could answer, Ruthven came in, and the formality of an introduction was gone through. Summerfield left the two chatting in the cage and went out to put away the Bar​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.