Betty Gordon in Washington | Page 8

thanks to your advice, and I have more than I need. Besides, I could
borrow from the Guerins or the Benders. You will take some, won't
you?"
"I have enough, really I have," insisted Bob. "You know Dr. Guerin
sold every one of those charms I carved, and I haven't spent a cent. It's
all buried in a little canvas bag under the rose bush, just like a movie. I
hate to take money from a girl, Betty."
"Don't be silly!" Betty stamped her foot angrily. "It's only a loan, Bob.
And you'd feel cheap, wouldn't you, if you had to come back after you
ran away because you didn't have enough money? You take this, and
you can pay it back as soon as you please after you have seen the old
bookstore man."
She pushed a tight little wad of money into the boy's perspiring hand.
"All right," he capitulated. "I'll borrow it. I would like to know I had
enough. Sure I'm not crippling you, Betsey?"
Betty shook her head, smiling.
"I've enough to buy a ticket to Washington," she assured him. "That's
all we need, isn't it, Bob? Oh, how I wish Uncle Dick would send for
me!"
CHAPTER IV
AT THE VENDUE
"You, Bob!"
The shout awakened Betty at dawn the next morning, and running to
the window she saw Bob disappear into the barn, Mr. Peabody close on
his heels.

"Oh, goodness, I suppose he's scolding about something," sighed the
girl. "There always is something to find fault about. I hope Bob will
keep his temper, because I want him to be able to take me to the vendue
this afternoon."
Joseph Peabody came into breakfast in a surly frame of mind, a mental
condition faithfully reflected in the attitude of his hired man who jerked
back his chair and subsided into it with a grunt. Betty's irrepressible
sense of humor pictured the dog (the Peabodys kept no dog because the
head of the house considered that dogs ate more than they were worth)
tucking his tail between his legs and slinking under the table as a port
in the storm. The dog, she decided, glancing at Mrs. Peabody's timid
face, was all that was needed to set the seal on a scene of ill-nature and
discomfort.
Bob, when he came in late with the milk pails, wore a black scowl and
set his burden down with a crash that spilled some of the precious fluid
on to the oilcloth top of the side table.
"Be a little more careful with that," growled Mr. Peabody, taking the
last piece of ham, which left nothing but the fried potatoes and bread
for Bob's breakfast. "The cows are going dry fast enough without you
trying to waste the little they give."
Bob, looking as though he could cheerfully fling the contents of both
pails over his employer, sullenly began to pump water into the hand
basin. This habit of "washing up" at the kitchen sink while a meal was
in progress always thoroughly disgusted Betty, and Bob usually
performed his ablutions on the back porch. This morning he was
evidently too cross to consider a second person's feelings.
"Always ready enough to throw out what doesn't belong to you," went
on Mr. Peabody grumbling. "Born in the poorhouse, you're in a fair
way to die there. If I didn't watch you every minute, you'd waste more
than I can save in a year."
Bob, his face buried in the roller towel, lost his temper at this point.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, shut up!" he muttered.
But Mr. Peabody had heard. With a quickness that surprised even his
wife, for ordinarily he slouched his way around, he sprang from his
chair, reached the side of the unconscious Bob, and soundly boxed his
ears twice.
"I'll take no impudence from you!" he cried, enraged. "Here, come
back!" he yelled, as Bob started for the door. "You come back here and
sit down. When you don't come to the table, it will be because I say so.
Sit down, I say!"
Bob, his face livid, his ears ringing, dropped into a chair at the table.
Ethan continued to eat stolidly, and Betty kept her eyes resolutely
fastened on her plate.
"Just for that, you stay home from the Faulkner sale!" announced Mr.
Peabody who was more than ordinarily loquacious that morning. "I'll
find something for you to do this afternoon that'll keep your hands busy,
if not your tongue. Eat your breakfast. I'll have no mincing over food at
my table."
Poor Bob, who had often been forbidden a meal as punishment, now
mechanically tried to eat the unappetizing food placed before him.
Betty was terribly disappointed about the sale, for she had set her heart
on going. There were few