Page:Top-Notch Magazine, May 1 1915 (IA tn 1915 05 01).pdf/19

 "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