Betty Gordon in Washington | Page 4

gradually
slipping back to the old level, and this morning, when Peabody had
gored the cow with his pitchfork, Bob had thought disgustedly that it
was useless to expect anything good at the hands of the owner of
Bramble Farm.
As he and Betty tramped back after delivering the cow, Bob's mind was
busy with plans that would free him from Mr. Peabody and set him
forward on the road that led to fortune. Bob included making a fortune
in his life work, having a shrewd idea that money rightly used was a
good gift.
"Where do you suppose your uncle is?" he asked Betty, coming out of a
reverie wherein he bade Bramble Farm and all the dwellers there with a
single exception a cold and haughty farewell.
"Why, I imagine he is in Washington," returned Betty confidently. "His

last letter was from there, though two days ago a postal came from
Philadelphia. I think likely he went up to see his lawyer and get his
mail. You know it was held there while he was out West. I hope he has
all my letters now, and last night I wrote him another, asking him if I
couldn't leave here. I said I'd rather go to the strictest kind of a boarding
school; and so I would. I'll mail the letter this afternoon in Glenside."
"It's too long a walk for you to take on a hot afternoon," grumbled Bob.
"I'm going over to Trowbridge, and I'll mail it there for you."
Betty pulled the letter from her blouse pocket and handed it to him.
"Where's Trowbridge?" she asked, as they came in sight of the
boundary line of Bramble Farm and sighted Mr. Peabody in
conversation with the mail carrier at the head of the lane. "Can I go
with you?"
"We'd better hurry," suggested Bob, quickening his steps. "Trowbridge
is four miles beyond Laurel Grove. You've never been there. No, you
can't go, Betty, because I have to ride the sorrel. I suppose in time old
Peabody will buy another wagon, but no one can tell when that will
come to pass."
The wagon house had burned one night, and the master of Bramble
Farm could not bring himself to pay out the cash for even a secondhand
wagon. As a result, the always limited social activities of the farm were
curtailed to the vanishing point.
"What are you going for?" persisted Betty, who had her fair share of
feminine curiosity with the additional excuse that interesting events
were few and far between in her present everyday life.
Bob grinned.
"Going to a vendue," he announced. "Now how much do you know?"
Betty tossed her head, and elevated her small, freckled nose.

"A vendue?" she repeated. "Why, a vendue is a--a--what is it, Bob?"
"A sale," said Bob. "Some farmer is going to sell out and Peabody
wants a wagon. So I have to ride that horse fourteen miles and back
--and he has a backbone like a razor blade!--to buy a wagon; that is, if
no one bids over me."
"And Mr. Peabody won't pay more than six dollars; he said so at the
supper table last night," mourned Betty. "You'll never be able to buy a
wagon for that. I wish I could go, too. Bob, I never saw a country
vendue. Please, can't I?"
"You cannot," replied Bob with unaccustomed decision. Betty usually
wheedled him into granting her requests. "Haven't I just told you there
is nothing to go in? If you see yourself perched on that raw-boned nag
with me, I don't, that's all. But I tell you what; there's a sale to-morrow
at a farm this side of Glenside--I'll take you to that, if you like. I guess
Peabody will let me off, seeing as how there are wagons advertised. We
can easily walk to Faulkner's place."
This promise contented Betty, and she ate her dinner quietly. Bob rode
off on the old horse directly after dinner, and then for the first time
Betty noticed that Mrs. Peabody seemed worried about something.
"Don't you feel well? Won't you go upstairs and lie down and let me do
the dishes?" urged the girl. "Do, Mrs. Peabody. You can have a nice,
long rest before it's time to feed the chickens."
"I feel all right," said Mrs. Peabody dully. "Only--well, I found this
card from the new minister back of the pump this morning. It's a week
old, and he says he's coming out to call this afternoon. There's no place
in the house I can show him, and I haven't got a decent dress, either."
Betty swallowed her first impulse to say what she thought of a husband
who would make no effort to see that his wife received her mail, and
instead turned her