# Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 22/Number 2/The Fluctuating Package/Chapter 3

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 ​six-pound stuff is flapdoodle," said he. "Fur would begin to fly, right off. I'll lock the package in the storeroom and let him weigh it for himself in the morning."
The storeroom was partitioned off at one corner of the express company's quarters. In the end, it had one window, crossed with longitudinal bars, overlooking the alley. Summerfield deposited the package in a vacant place on the shelf, and carefully locked the door upon it. Then all but one electric bulb was switched off in the big room and the three left the place.
The agent was going to walk home with Lois McKenzie. It was a case, Ruthven thought, where three was a crowd, so he excused himself when near the hotel.
"I'm going to be in town overnight, Summerfield," said he, "in order to transact some business at the bank to-morrow for Jed Hoover, Uncle Tom's foreman at Ranch Two. Maybe I'll drop around and find out if that Barton package continues to grow."
"Come in before ten-thirty, then," said Summerfield. "The package goes west on Seventeen, and that pulls through Burt City at eleven. Al takes outgoing stuff down half an hour before train time."
"Correct!" assented Ruthven.
Miss McKenzie, of course, asked him to call at her home whenever he happened to be in town and could find time to do so. "Gwen has written me a good deal about you, Mr. Ruthven," she observed, "and Joe and I both would like to do all we can to make your stay in Montana pleasant."
"That's very kind of you," said Ruthven gratefully. "I shall probably bother you and Joe a good deal." He bade both of them good night, and made his way across the street to the hotel.
Next morning Summerfield heard that Harrington, the traveling agent, was in town. That meant a checking up of the office, and the agent congratulated himself on having everything shipshape and ready for inspection. Summerfield's mind was upon Harrington, and the mystery surrounding the Barton package was temporarily dismissed from his thoughts. At half past nine, however, Lewis Ruthven wandered in, and the agent's mind was suddenly prodded.
"How much does it weigh now?" inquired Ruthven quizzically.
"We'll see," the agent answered. He turned to the driver, who was busy in the back part of the room. "Al," he called, "how much did you say that Barton package weighed?"
"Six pounds—s-i-x," was the prompt response. "Half a dozen; three times two; one, two, three, four, five, six!"
Summerfield turned blandly to Ruthven. "You see how positive that little runt is?" he remarked. "He's Mr. Know-It-All in this shebang."
"He's got a surprise coming," chuckled Ruthven. "Haven't you weighed the parcel this morning?"
"Hadn't thought about it until now. You see, Harrington, the traveling agent, is in town to check up the office. My mind has been on him."
"Right where it ought to be, by jing!" called Reeves. "When Harrington finds out the boss of this office is off his trolley, the kibosh is liable to drop. Maybe I'll be agent, you can't tell."
"Come out of that delirium, Al!" suggested the agent. "And get the Barton package and put it on the scales. It weighs nine pounds."
"You're spoofing me, old chap," returned Reeves. "You've had another bad turn, and I hate to think of what's going to happen to you. Bughouse, bughouse!"
"Nine pounds, Al!" declared Ruthven. "I was here last night when Summerfield weighed the package."
"Now there's two of you!" moaned ​Reeves. "Wonder where this thing's goin' to stop?"
When he had vanished into the storeroom, Ruthven and Summerfield winked at each other and slyly smiled. "Here's where we land on that little upstart," said the agent. "He's got a surprise coming."
"Surest thing you know," the other agreed.
They watched from the front of the office while Reeves emerged from the storeroom and placed the package on the scales. He looked once at the tilted beam, then turned away to his work with a grunt of disgust.
"Ah, ha!" jeered Summerfield. "Now what do you think, you loquacious false alarm? Struck you dumb, didn't it?"
"Oh, look; go look!" snorted the driver.
Summerfield and Ruthven walked to the packing scales. Both bent down, smiling, then started erect with astounded eyes on each other. The package weighed six pounds!
The agent staggered to the water cooler and took a drink. Then he unbuttoned his collar. "I've got to have air," he gasped.
"I don't see why," said Al. "You're fuller of hot air than a balloon. Say, you make me tired. Is this all for Seventeen? Gi'me that!" he added, holding out his hand for the Barton package. "It's goin' west, and I want to tote it away from this hang-out before Joe gets any worse'n he is."
Ruthven was examining the package, his eyes wide with amazement. "Look here, Summerfield!" he called. The agent walked over to him. "See that?" And Ruthven indicated a penciled cross at one end of the package under the cord.
"What of it?" asked Summerfield.
"Last evening, while you weren't looking, Miss McKenzie and I put that private mark on the package, so we could identify it later, if we wanted to. There it is. That makes this mystery brain-staggering. My wits are all scrambled. Hanged if I can make head or tail of it."
"Same here. But what's the use of bothering? The package leaves this office as per waybill. Load it up, Al," he added.
"Wait a minute!" interposed Ruthven. "Phone The Emporium and ask Long or McKenzie to come down here. We'll have one of the shippers open the package and show us what it is that shifts its weight from six to eight and nine pounds and then back to six again. Hanged if I can rest till we know more."
"I can tell you what it is," said the driver; "imagination, that's what. You'll have to hurry—I don't want to miss Seventeen."
"You've got a whole hour, even if Seventeen is on time," returned Summerfield, and went to the phone. After a few minutes he hung up and turned away. "Long and McKenzie are both coming," he announced. "Maybe they can shed a little light on this business. Good idea, Ruthven, and I'm glad you suggested it."
In five minutes the two partners came into the express office. "What's to pay, Joe?" wheezed Long, wiping the perspiration from his fat face as he leaned over the counter. "Think we're shippin' clockwork bombs by express, same as that holdup man done a spell ago and blowed up a car and wrecked a train? What ails that Barton package, anyhow?"
"It has a way of getting heavy and then light," explained the agent, a little sheepishly, for the matter seemed too absurd for serious consideration. "Mind telling us what's in it, Mr. Long?"
"What do you mean, gets heavy and then light?" queried the senior partner.
The agent explained, and Long laughed till he almost choked. "You're ​batty, jest batty!" he said. "Here, I'll show you what's in it."
He reached for the package, carefully untied and removed the string, and took out a heavy pasteboard box. Removing the cover of the box, he held up the tan bluchers with the eighteen-inch tops. "Jest boots," he chuckled.
"For your uncle, Thomas Barton, Mr. Ruthven," put in McKenzie. "He always sends to our store for that sort of footgear."
"Orders a pair every summer," added Long.
"Anything inside those boots?" inquired Ruthven.
"See for yourself."
Ruthven turned both boots upside down and shook them. In order to further convince himself, he ran a hand into each of them. "Nothing inside," he announced. Then he examined the box. It was perfectly empty and had contained only the boots.
McKenzie wrapped up the package again, carefully adjusting wrapper and string in the old creases so as not to disturb the express company's marks. Thereupon the partners went away again, Long fairly strangling with mirth.
"Jest boots," whispered Summerfield to Ruthven. "Load 'em up, Al!" he added vigorously to the driver. "See how quick you can get 'em away from here."