Going Some | Page 4

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 girls behind the distant screen of vines, removed his cigarette and whistled thrice, like a quail, then, leaning against the adobe wall, curled his black silken mustaches to needle-points.
"It's that romantic Spaniard!" whispered Helen. "What does he want?"
"It's his afternoon call on Mariedetta, the maid," said Jean. "They meet there twice a day, morning and afternoon."
"A lovers' tryst!" breathed Miss Blake, eagerly. "Isn't he graceful and picturesque! Can we watch them?"
"'Sh-h! There she comes!"
From the opposite direction appeared a slim, swarthy Mexican girl, an Indian water-jug balanced upon her shoulders. She was clad in the straight-hanging native garment, belted in with a sash; her feet were in sandals, and she moved as silently as a shadow.
During the four days since Miss Blake's arrival