Going Some | Page 4

he turned it over. "The boys are
just brokenhearted over losing that phonograph."
"I'll get him to run and win it back," Jean offered, easily. Her brother
laughed. "Take my advice, Sis, and don't let Culver mix up in this game!
The stakes are too high. I think that Centipede cook is a professional
runner, myself, and if our boys were beaten again--well, you and
mother and I would have to move out of New Mexico, that's all. No,
we'd better let the memory of that defeat die out as quickly as possible.
You warn Fresno not to joke about it any more, and I'll take Mrs. Keap
off your hands. She may be a widow, she may even be the chaperon,
but I'll do it; I will do it," promised Jack--"for my sister's sake."

CHAPTER II
Helen Blake was undeniably bored. The sultry afternoon was very
long--longer even than Berkeley Fresno's autobiography, and quite as
dry. It was too hot and dusty to ride, so she took refuge in the latest
"best seller," and sought out a hammock on the vine- shaded gallery,
where Jean Chapin was writing letters, while the disconsolate Fresno,
banished, wandered at large, vaguely injured at her lack of
appreciation.
Absent-mindedly, the girls dipped into the box of bonbons between
them. Jean finished her correspondence and essayed conversation, but
her companion's blond head was bowed over the book in her lap, and
the effort met with no response. Lulled by the somniferous droning of
insects and lazy echoes from afar, Miss Chapin was on the verge of
slumber, when she saw her guest rapidly turn the last pages of her
novel, then, with a chocolate between her teeth, read wide-eyed to the
finish. Miss Blake closed the book reluctantly, uncurled slowly, then
stared out through the dancing heat-waves, her blue eyes shadowed

with romance.
"Did she marry him?" queried Jean.
"No, no!" Helen Blake sighed, blissfully. "It was infinitely finer. She
killed herself."
"I like to see them get married."
"Naturally. You are at that stage. But I think suicide is more glorious,
in many cases."
Miss Chapin yawned openly. "Speaking of suicides, isn't this ranch the
deadest place?"
"Oh, I don't think so at all." Miss Blake picked her way fastidiously
through the bonbons, nibbling tentatively at several before making her
choice. "Oh yes, you do, and you needn't be polite just because you're a
guest." "Well, then, to be as truthful as a boarder, it is a little dull. Not
for our chaperon, though. The time doesn't seem to drag on her hands.
Jack certainly is making it pleasant for her."
"If you call taking her out to watch a lot of bellowing calves get
branded, entertainment," Miss Chapin sighed.
"I wonder what makes widows so fascinating?" observed the youthful
Miss Blake.
"I hope I never find out." Jean clutched nervously at the gold medal on
her dress. "Wouldn't that be dreadful!"
"My dear, Culver seems perfectly healthy. Why worry?"
"I--I wish he were here."
Miss Blake leaned forward and read the inscription on her companion's
medal. "Oh, isn't it heavy!" feeling it reverently.
"Pure gold, like himself! You should have seen him when he won it.

Why, at the finish of that race all the men but Culver were making the
most horrible faces. They were simply dead."
Miss Blake's hands were clasped in her lap. "They all make faces," said
she. "Have you told Roberta about your engagement?"
"No, she doesn't dream of it, and I don't want her to know. I'm so afraid
she'll think, now that mother has gone, that I asked her here just as a
chaperon. Perhaps I'll tell her when Culver comes."
"I adore athletes. I wouldn't give a cent for a man who wasn't athletic."
"Does Mr. Speed go in for that sort of thing?"
"Rather! The day we met at the Yale games he had medals all over him,
and that night at the dance he used the most wonderful athletic
language--we could scarcely understand him. Mr. Covington must have
told you all about him; they are chums, you know."
Miss Chapin furrowed her brows meditatively.
"I have heard Culver speak of him, but never as an athlete. Have you
and Mr. Speed settled things between you, Helen? I mean, has he--said
anything?"
Miss Blake flushed.
"Not exactly." She adjusted a cushion to cover her confusion, then
leaned back complacently. "But he has stuttered dangerously several
times."
A musical tinkle of silver spurs sounded in the distance, and around the
corner of the cook-house opposite came Carara, the Mexican, his wide,
spangled sombrero tipped rakishly over one ear, a corn-husk cigarette
drooping from his lips. Evidently his presence was inspired by some
special motive, for he glanced sharply about, and failing to detect the
two