Mrs. Peabody stood at the table, mixing something in a pan, and a small glass lamp gave the room all the light it had.
“I’m setting my bread,” the woman explained, as Betty came in. “Where have you been dear? You must be hungry.”
“No, I’m not hungry,” answered Betty, avoiding explanations. “I’ve been out for a little walk. May I have a lamp Mrs. Peabody?”
Her hostess glanced round to make sure that the door was shut.
“You can take this one in just a minute,” she said, indicating the small lamp on the table. “Mr. Peabody’s gone up to bed. You see we don’t use lights much in summer—we go to bed early ‘cause all hands have to be up at half-past four. And lamps brings the mosquitoes.”
Betty sat down in a chair to wait for her lamp. She was tired from her journey and the exciting events of the day, but she had made up her mind to write to her uncle that night, and her mind made up, Betty was sure to stick to it.
“Aren’t you going to bed?” asked Betty, taking up the lamp when Mrs. Peabody had finished.
Mrs. Peabody made no move to leave the kitchen.
“I like to sit out on the back stoop awhile and get cooled off,” she said. “Sometimes I go to sleep leaning against the post, and one night I didn’t wake up till morning and Bob Henderson fell over me running out for wood to start the fire. I like to sit quiet. Sometimes I wish I had a dog to keep me company, but Mr. Peabody don’t like dogs.”
Betty went back to her room and began her letter. But all the while she was writing the thought of that lonely woman “sitting quiet” on the doorstep haunted her. What a life! And she had probably looked forward to happiness with her husband and home as all girls do.
The mosquitoes were singing madly about the light before the first five minutes had passed, but Betty stuck it out and sealed and addressed her letter, putting it under her pillow for safe keeping. Then she blew out the light and undressed in the dark. The bed was the hardest thing she had ever lain upon, but, being a healthy young person and very tired, she fell asleep as quickly as though the mattress had been filled with softest down and only wakened when a shaft of sunlight fell across her face. Some one was whistling softly beneath her window.
Seizing her dressing gown and flinging it across her shoulders, Betty peered out. Bob Henderson, swinging a milk pail in either hand, was back of the lilac bush again.
“Say, it’s quarter of six,” he called anxiously, as he saw Betty’s face at the window. “Breakfast is at six, and if you don’t hurry you’ll be cheated out of that. I’m going to Glenside right after, too.”
“I’ll hurry,” promised Betty. “Thank you for telling me. Have you been up long?”
“Hour and a half,” came the nonchalant answer as Bob hurried on to the barn.
Betty sat down on the floor to put on her shoes and stockings. At first she was angry to think that she should be made to rush like this in order to have any breakfast when her uncle was paying her board and in any other household she would have been accorded some consideration as a guest. Then the humor of the situation appealed to her and she laughed till the tears came. She, Betty Gordon, who often had to be called three times in the morning, was scrambling into her clothes at top speed in the hope of securing something to eat.
“It’s too funny!” she gasped as she pulled a middy blouse on over her head. “I’ll bet the Peabody’s never have to call any one twice to come to the table; not if they’re within hearing distance. They come first call without coaxing.”
The breakfast table was set in the kitchen, and when Betty entered Mrs. Peabody was putting small white saucers of oatmeal at each place. Ordinarily Betty did not care for oatmeal in warm weather, but this morning she was in no mood to quarrel with anything eatable and she dispatched her portion almost as quickly as Bob did his. Mr. Peabody grunted something which she took to mean good-morning, and the two hired men simply nodded to her. After the oatmeal came fried potatoes, bread without butter, ham and coffee. There was no milk to drink and no eggs.
“If I was going to stay,” thought Betty to herself, “I’d get some stuff over in town and hide it in my room. I wonder if I couldn’t anyway. When I leave, Bob would have it.”
She fell to planning what she would buy and became as silent as any of the other five at that queer table.
CHAPTER IX
ONE ON BOB
As soon as the men finished eating they rose silently and shuffled out. Any diffidence Betty might have felt about facing any one at the table after her dramatic exit of the night before was speedily dispelled; no one paid the slightest attention to her. Mrs. Peabody had risen and begun to wash the dishes at the sink before Betty had finished.
“I want to ride over to Glenside with Bob,” said the girl a trifle uncertainly as she pushed back her chair. “You don’t care, do you, Mrs. Peabody? And can I do any errands for you?”
“No, I dunno as I want anything,” said the woman dully. “You go along and try to enjoy yourself. Bob’s got to get back by eleven to whitewash the pig house.”
“Come, drive over with us this morning,” urged Betty kindly. “I’ll help you with the work when we get back. The air will do you good. You look as though you had a headache.”
“Oh, I have a headache ‘most all the time,” admitted Mrs. Peabody, apparently not thinking it worth discussion. “And I couldn’t go to town, child, I haven’t a straw hat. I don’t know when I’ve been to Glenside. Joe fusses so about the collection, I gave up going to church two years ago.”
Betty heard the sound of wheels and ran out to join Bob, an ache in her throat.
“I think it’s a burning shame!” she announced hotly to that youth, as he put out a helpful hand to pull her up to the seat. “I pity Mrs. Peabody from the bottom of my heart. Why can’t she have a straw hat? Doesn’t she take care of the poultry and the butter and do all the work in the house? If she can’t have a hat, I’d like to know why not!”
“Regular pepper-pot, aren’t you?” commented Bob admiringly. “Gee, I wanted to laugh when you lit into old Peabody last night. Didn’t dare, though—he’d have up and pasted me one.”
It was a beautiful summer morning, and in spite of injustice and unlovely human traits housed under the roof they had left, in spite of the sight of the poor animal before them suffering pain at every step, the two young people managed to enjoy themselves. Betty had a hundred questions to ask about Bramble Farm, and Bob was in the seventh heaven of delight to have this friendly, cheerful companion to talk to instead of only his own thoughts for company.
“I’ve got the letter to Uncle Dick here in my pocket,” Betty was saying as they came in sight of the blacksmith’s shop on the outskirts of Glenside. “I suppose I’ll have to be patient about waiting for an answer. It may take a week. I don’t know just where he is, but I’ve written to the address he gave me, and marked it ‘Please forward.’”
The blacksmith came out and took the horse, Bob helping him unharness and Betty improving the opportunity to see the inside of a smithy.
“I guess you’ll want to look around town a bit?” suggested Bob, coming up to her when the sorrel was tied in place awaiting his turn to be shod. Two other horses were before him. “I’ll wait here for you.”
Betty looked at him in surprise.
“Why, Bob Henderson!” she ejaculated, keeping her voice low so that the two or three loungers about the door could not hear. “Are you willing to let me go around by myself in a perfectly strange town? I don’t even know my way to the post-office. Don’t you want to go with me?”
Bob was evidently embarrassed.
“I—I—I don’t look fit!” he blurted out. “The collar’s torn off this shirt, and I get only one clean pair of overalls a week—Monday morning. I don’t look good enough to go round with you.”
“Don’t be silly!” said Betty severely. “You look all right for a work day. Come on, or we won’t be back by the time the shoe is on.”
Between the s
hop and the town there was a rather deserted strip of land, very conspicuous as to concrete walks and building lots marked off, but rather lacking in actual houses. Betty seized her opportunity to do a little tactful financiering. She knew that Bob had no money of his own—indeed it was doubtful if the lad had ever handled even small change that he was not accountable for.
“Uncle Dick gave me some money to spend,” remarked Betty, rather hurriedly, for she did not know how Bob was going to take what she meant to say. “And before you show me the different stores, I want you to take me to the drug store. I’m going to buy Mrs. Peabody the largest bottle of violet toilet water I can find. It will do her headache heaps of good. If I give you the money, you’ll buy it for me, won’t you Bob?”
“Sure I will,” agreed the unsuspecting Bob, and he pocketed the five dollar bill she gave him readily enough.
The wily Betty hoped that the drug store would be modern, for she had a plan tucked up her white sleeve.
“Want to go to the drug store first or to the post-office?” asked Bob.
“Oh, the post-office!” Betty was suddenly anxious to know that her letter was actually on the way.
“Don’t forget—get a big bottle,” said Betty warningly, as she and Bob entered the drug store.
Her dancing dark eyes discovered what she had hoped for the moment they were inside the screen door—a large soda fountain with a white-jacketed clerk behind it.
Bob led the way to the perfume counter, and though the clerk, who evidently knew him, seemed surprised at his order, he very civilly set out several bottles of toilet water for their inspection. Betty chose a handsome large bottle, and when it was wrapped, and with it some soap, for Betty did not fancy the thin wafer of yellow kitchen soap she had found in her soapdish, Bob paid for the package and received the change quite as though he were accustomed to such proceedings. Indeed he stood straighter, and Betty knew she was right in her conclusions that he had sensitiveness and pride.
The time had come to put her plan into action.
“Oh, Bob!” She pulled his coat sleeve as they were passing the fountain on their way out. “Let’s have a sundae!”
The clerk had heard her, and he came forward at once, pushing toward them a printed card with the names of the drinks served. Bob opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat down on one of the high stools and Betty on another.
“I’ll have a chocolate marshmallow nut sundae,” ordered Betty composedly, having selected the most expensive and fanciful concoction listed with the fervent hope that it would be plentiful and good.
“I’ll have the same,” mumbled Bob, just as Betty had trusted he would.
While the clerk was mixing the delectable dainty, Betty stole a look at Bob. His mouth was set grimly. Then he turned and caught her eye. An unwilling grin flickered across his face and he capitulated as Betty broke into a delighted giggle.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” admitted Bob, “you’ve certainly put it over on me.”
They laughed and chattered over the sundaes, and Betty, when they were gone, would not listen to reason, but insisted they must have another. She did not want a second one, but she knew Bob’s longing for sweets must have gone ungratified a long time, and she was too young to worry about the ultimate effect on his surprised organs of digestion. Bob was fairly caught, and could not object without putting himself in an unfavorable light with the impressive young clerk, so two more sundaes were ordered and disposed of. Then Bob paid for them from the change in his pocket and he and Betty found themselves on the sunny sidewalk.
“That’s the first sundae I ever had,” confessed Bob shyly. “Of course we had ice-cream at the poorhouse sometimes for a treat—Christmas and sometimes Fourth of July. But I never ate a sundae. Do you want your change back now?”
“No, keep it,” said Betty. “I want to go to a grocery store now. And where do they keep mosquito netting?”
“Same place—Liscom’s general store,” answered Bob.
The general store was well-named. Betty, who had never been in a place of this kind, was fascinated by the shelves and the wonderful assortment of goods they contained. Everything, she privately decided, from a pink chiffon veil to a keg of nails could be bought here, and her deductions were very near the truth.
“I can’t stand being chewed by the mosquitoes another night,” she whispered to Bob. “So I’m going to get some netting and tack it on the window casings. I’d buy a lamp if I was going to stay.”
After the netting was measured off, Betty, to Bob’s astonishment, began to buy groceries. She chose cans of sardines and tuna fish, several packages of fancy crackers, a bottle or two of olives, a pound of dried apricots, a box of dates and one or two other articles. These were all wrapped together in a neat bundle.
“Do they make sandwiches here?” asked Betty, watching a machine shaving off a pink slice of cold boiled ham and a layer of cheese and the storekeeper’s assistant butter two slabs of bread with sweet-looking butter at the order of a teamster who stood waiting.
“Sure we do, Miss,” the proprietor assured her. “Nice, fresh sandwiches made while you wait, and wrapped in waxed paper.”
“I’ll have two ham and two cheese, please,” responded Betty, adding in an aside to Bob: “We can eat ’em going home.”
She was afraid that perhaps she had spent more money than she had left from the five dollar bill. But Bob had enough to pay for her purchases, it seemed, and they left the store with their bundles, well pleased with the morning’s work.
CHAPTER X
ROAD COURTESY
“We’ll have to hurry,” said Bob, quickening his steps, “if I’m to get back at eleven. I hope Turner has the sorrel ready.”
“Hasn’t the horse a name?” queried Betty curiously, running to keep up with Bob. “I must go out and see the cows and things. Do you like pigs, Bob?”
The boy laughed a little at this confusion of ideas.
“No, none of the horses are named,” he answered, taking the questions in order. “Peabody has three; but we just call ’em the sorrel and the black and the bay. Nobody’s got time to feed ’em lumps of sugar and make pets out of them. Guess that’s what you’ve got in mind, Betty. Old Peabody would throw a fit if he saw any one feeding sugar to a horse.”
“But the cows?” urged Betty. “Do they get enough to eat? Or do they have to suffer to save money, like this poor horse we brought over to be shod?”
“Cows,” announced Bob sententiously, “are different A cow won’t give as much milk if she’s bothered, and Joe Peabody can see a butter check as far as anybody else. So the stables are screened and the cows are fed pretty well. Now, of course, they’re out on pasture. They’re not blood stock, though—just mixed breeds. And I hate pigs!”
Betty was surprised at his vehemence, but she had no chance to ask for an explanation, for by this time they had reached the smithy, and the blacksmith led out the sorrel.
After they were well started on their way toward the farm, she ventured to ask Bob why he hated pigs.
“If you had to take care of ’em, you’d know why,” he answered moodily. “I’d like to drown every one of ’em in the pails of slop I’ve carried out to ’em. And whitewashing the pig house on a hot day—whew! The pigs can go out in the orchard and root around, while I have to clean up after ’em. Besides, if you lived on ham for breakfast the year round, you’d hate the sight of a pig!”
Betty laughed understandingly.
“I know I should,” she agreed. “Isn’t it funny, I never thought so much about eating in my life as I have since I’ve been here. It’s on my mind continually. I bought this canned stuff to keep up in my room so if I don’t want to eat what the Peabodys have every meal I needn’t. You can have some, too, Bob. Let’s eat these sandwiches now—I’m hungry, aren’t you? Why didn’t you tell me you were tired of ham and I would have bought something else?”
But Bob was far from despising well-cooked cold, boiled ham, and he thoroughly enjo
yed his share of the sandwiches. While eating he glanced once or twice uncertainly at Betty, wishing he could find the courage to tell her how glad he was that she had come to Bramble Farm. Bob’s life had had very few pleasant events in it so far.
“Don’t you think it was funny that Mr. Peabody let me come?” asked Betty presently, following her own train of thought. “If he’s so close, I should think he’d hate to have any one come to see his wife.”
“He’s doing it for the check your uncle sent,” retorted Bob shrewdly. “Didn’t you know your board was paid for two weeks in advance? That’s why Peabody isn’t making a fuss about your going; he figures he’ll be in that much. Hello, what’s this?”
“This” was a buggy drawn up at one side of the road, the fat, white horse lazily cropping grass, while two slight feminine figures stood helplessly by.
Bob was going to drive past, but Betty put out her hand and jerked the sorrel to a halt.
“Ask ’em what the matter is,” she commanded.
“They’ve lost a wheel,” said Bob in a low tone, his practiced eye having detected at once that one of the rear wheels was lying on the grass. “We can’t stop, Betty; we’re late now, and Joe Peabody’s in a raging temper anyway this morning.”
“Why, Bob Henderson, how you do talk!” Betty’s dark eyes began to shoot fire. “Just because you have to live with the meanest man in the world is no excuse for you to grow like him! If you drive on and don’t try to help these women, I’ll never speak to you again—never!”
Bob looked shamefaced. His first impulse had been to stop and offer help, but he had had first-hand experience with the Peabody temper and had endured more than one beating for slight neglect of iron-clad orders. When he still hesitated, Betty spoke scornfully.
“They’re old ladies—so don’t bother,” she said bitingly. “Uncle Dick says no one should ever leave any one in trouble on the road, but I suppose he meant men who could whack you over the head if you refused to assist them. Why don’t you drive on, Bob?”
“You hush up!” Bob, stung into action, closed his mouth grimly and handed over the reins to his tormentor. “It’s a half hour’s job to put that wheel on, but I suppose there’s no way out of it, so here goes.”
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 189
