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
