“Of course he hasn’t!” For the life of her Betty could not keep still, though perhaps caution dictated that she hold her tongue. “I know he hasn’t that deed, Mr. Peabody. And having him arrested won’t give you what he hasn’t got.”
“How do you know he hasn’t got it?” demanded the farmer. “Deeds don’t walk off and hide themselves, young lady. Bob happens to know why I want that deed. And if he doesn’t produce it, and that mighty quick, he’ll find himself where they can shake the truth out of him with no fooling.”
Bobby sprang to her feet from the leather chair where she had curled up to listen to the proceedings.
“I’ll telephone my father,” she cried. “He’ll help Bob to sue you for false arrest. If you have some one arrested and it is found he didn’t do what you said he did, he can sue you for damages. I’ve heard my father say so. Don’t you care, Bob, Daddy will find a way to beat this horrid old man.”
An unpleasant smile spread over the mean, shriveled face.
“Is that so?” queried Joseph Peabody. “Well, I don’t know who you are, Miss, but you need a lesson on how to keep a civil tongue in your head. All the fine friends Mister Bob has picked up in Washington won’t stand by him long when they find out he’s a poorhouse rat and a runaway at that. There’ll be some explaining for you to do before the almshouse authorities are satisfied, young man.”
Betty’s anger flamed as the familiar odious phrase fell from the farmer’s lips, and added to her anger was the crystallized fear that had been haunting her for weeks. She did not know whether Bob could really be returned to the poor-house or whether it was another trick of Peabody’s, but she feared the worst and dreaded it.
“You try to return Bob to the poorhouse!” she cried, her cheeks blazing, her hands clenched. She took a step toward Peabody and he fell back, dragging Bob with him so that a chair stood between them and the furious girl. “You try to return Bob to the poorhouse, and I’ll tell every one what I know about that deed,” flared Betty. “I know all about the Warren lots and the kind of sale you forced through. You—you—” to her distress and amazement, Betty burst into tears.
“Don’t cry, dear,” whispered Bobby, putting her arm around her. “Daddy won’t let them do anything to Bob. You see if he does.”
Joseph Peabody was apparently impervious to verbal assaults and tears.
“Once more I ask you,” he shook Bob violently, “are you going to hand over that paper? Yes, or no?”
“I tell you I haven’t got it,” said Bob doggedly. “Shaking my teeth out won’t help me get a paper I never saw in my life. As for having me arrested, you keep up this racket much longer and the hotel authorities will send for the police on their own responsibility.”
Peabody picked up his hat.
“All right, you come along with me,” he said sourly. “You won’t go before a soft-headed police recorder this time, either. You’ll find out what it means to face a real judge.”
He was marching Bob toward the door when a sharp rap sounded. Louise, nearest the door, had the presence of mind to open it. A bellboy stood there with a telegram on a tray.
“Telegram for Mr. Joseph Peabody,” he announced impassively, his alert eyes darting about the room from which such angry voices had been coming for the last quarter of an hour.
“All right—give it here.” The farmer snatched the yellow envelope and shut the door in the boy’s face without making a motion to tip him.
His back against the door, to prevent Bob’s escape, Joseph Peabody slit the envelope and read the message. The others saw his jaw drop and a slow, painful flush creep over his face and neck.
“I’m called back to Bramble Farm right away,” he mumbled, refusing to meet their gaze. “Being hurried, and having so much to tend to, I’m willing to drop the matter of having you arrested, Bob. But let this be a lesson to you, to hoe a straight row.”
Bob stared at the man stupidly, frankly bewildered. But Betty’s quick wit solved the sudden change of front. She had seen how quickly Peabody folded up the telegram when he had read it.
“Isn’t that a message from Mrs. Peabody?” she demanded crisply. “And doesn’t she say she’s found the deed? Where was it—in one of your coat pockets?”
The farmer was taken by surprise, and the truth was shocked out of him.
“She’s found it under the seat in the old market wagon,” he blurted. “I recollect I put it there for safe-keeping, meaning to take it over to the deposit box the next day. Well, I’ve wasted more time an’ money in Washington than I like to think of. Got to go home and make up for it.”
Without another word or glance, without the shadow of an apology to Bob, he swung out of the room and strode over to the desk. In a moment they heard his harsh voice demanding the amount of his bill.
Bob looked at Betty, who stared back. Louise and Bobby were equally silent. Then Betty snickered, and the tension was broken. Peal after peal of laughter rang out, and they dropped helplessly into chairs and laughed till they could laugh no longer.
“Oh, dear!” Betty sat up, wiping her eyes. “Did you ever see anything like that? He never said good-by, or admitted that he’d made a mistake, or—or anything! What do you suppose people in the hotel must think of him?”
That reminded Bobby of the girl they had come to see and who was really responsible for their visit to the hotel.
“The first kind thing Ruth Royal ever did for me,” she declared frankly. “I wouldn’t have missed seeing Mr. Peabody for worlds.”
“How did you ever happen to come here, Bob?” asked Betty, who had been wondering about this ever since she had seen Bob walk right into the one man he most wished to avoid.
“I brought a letter from Mr. Derby for one of the guests stopping here,” explained Bob. “That reminds me, I haven’t delivered it yet. Peabody threw me off the track. I’ll turn it in, and then I’ll have to hurry back to the office; they’ll think I’ve been run over for sure.”
He went off, promising again to see them on Saturday, and the girls, feeling too upset to settle down to the quietness of a motion picture house, went out to walk up and down in the sunshine of Pennsylvania Avenue until it was time to meet Mr. Littell and Libbie and Esther.
Of course they had much to tell them, and Mr. Littell in particular was a most appreciative listener. He was genuinely fond of Bob and interested in him, and he got quite purple with wrath when he learned of the indignity he had suffered at the hands of the ill-bred farmer.
“Then he went off and never had the grace to ask the lad’s pardon!” sputtered the builder when Betty reached the end of her recital. “I wish I had him by the collar—just for three minutes. Perhaps I wouldn’t drive a little of the fear of justice into his narrow mind!”
They had lingered over their ice-cream, and although Carter drove at a good speed, they found that unless they hurried they would be late for dinner. It was one of Mrs. Littell’s few unbreakable rules that the girls must change into simple, light frocks for the evening meal, and they went directly upstairs to take off their street clothes.
When they came down dinner had been announced and they went directly to the table. They had so much to tell Mrs. Littell and she was so interested that it was not until they were leaving the table that she remembered what she had meant to ask Betty as soon as the girl came in.
“Betty, darling,” she said comfortably, “you found your letter on the hall table all right, didn’t you?”
“Why, I never thought to look for mail,” returned Betty in surprise. “No, Mrs. Littell, I didn’t stop in the hall. Was there a letter for me?”
Mrs. Littell nodded and swept her family across the hall into the living-room, saying something to her husband in a low voice. Betty hurried to the console table where the mail was always laid on a beaten silver tray. The solitary letter lying there was addressed to her. And the postmark, she saw as she picked it up, was a town in Oklahoma!
CHAPTER XXV
FUTURE PLANS
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Betty’s first impulse was to run up to her room and close the door. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed and tore open the envelope eagerly. She read the half dozen closely written sheets through twice, thrust them back into the envelope, and ran down to tell the Littells the good news.
“I’ve heard from Uncle Dick!” she cried radiantly, facing them as they turned at her entrance. Betty’s vivid personality often betrayed her mood without a word, and tonight she was vibrant with happiness so that she fairly glowed. “He has just got back to Flame City, where he found the telegram and my letters. And he wants me to come out to him, as he expects to be there for the next few months. He’s been on a long prospecting trip, and he can’t get East till his company sends out another representative. You may read the letter!”
She thrust it into Mr. Littell’s hands and buried her head on Mrs. Littell’s broad shoulder.
“I’m so happy!” she choked, while the motherly hands smoothed her hair understandingly.
“It’s been so long, and I was afraid he might have died—like my mother. I don’t think I could stand it if Uncle Dick should die—he’s the only one who belongs to me.”
“Why, Betty, child!” Mrs. Littell gathered her into her lap and rocked her gently as though she had been a little child. “You’re nervous and unstrung. We ought to have taken better care of you and not let this waiting wear you out so.”
“If you’re going to cry, Betty, so’ll I,” promised Bobby, putting an awkward arm around Betty’s neck. Bobby was as undemonstrative as a boy and rarely kissed any one. “What in the wide world are we going to do without you?”
Betty sat up and pushed the damp hair from her forehead. The four girls were regarding her dolorously.
“I won’t stay forever,” she assured them. “Uncle Dick doesn’t intend to live out there, you know. The company he represents will likely send him East this very winter.”
“Well, that’s a mighty interesting letter,” commented Mr. Littell, folding up the missive and returning it to Betty. “Though you’re going to leave a hole in this household, Sister, when you set sail. You see, he’s been out of sight and hearing of trains and post-offices for a long time. I’d like to be able to lose myself in the desert or a wilderness for a month or two. Think of having no telephone bell to answer!”
The next morning a letter came to Mr. Littell from Mr. Gordon, thanking him warmly for his kindness to Betty, containing the assurance of the writer’s lasting gratitude, and asking him if he and his wife would oversee her preparations for the journey, help her engage a berth, and start her on her way. A generous check was enclosed, and Mrs. Littell and the girls immediately set about helping Betty do the necessary shopping, while Mr. Littell engaged her reservations on the Western Limited. She had decided to leave the following Wednesday, and when Bob came out to spend the week-end, he immediately announced his intention of going too.
“I figure out Flame City is the nearest station to my aunt’s old place. I have enough money saved now, and there’s no reason why I should stay on here. Hurrah for Oklahoma!”
The preparations went forward merrily after that, and Wednesday found Betty on the Western Limited, bound for Flame City. What happened to her there and her experience in the great oil fields will be told in another volume to be called, “Betty Gordon in the Land of Oil; or, The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune.”
Bobby insisted that they make the week-end at Fairfields a farewell celebration to be remembered, and the six young people managed to get the maximum of enjoyment out of every hour. Bob had been brought out to Saturday luncheon, and as soon as he had heard about the Oklahoma trip and announced his own plans, Louise insisted that Betty was to have a lesson in riding.
“Of course you’ll want to ride out West,” she said. “They all do in pictures. Come on out to the barn, and we’ll get the ponies out.”
A stable boy brought out a gentle, coal-black pony, and Betty mounted him trustingly.
“Why, it’s lovely!” cried Betty, enjoying the sensation to the full. “He goes like a rocking chair, bless his heart! I’m sure I can learn to ride.”
“Of course you can!” Bobby encouraged her swiftly. “You must try him at a slow canter in a minute. Here comes Esther with the camera.”
A picture of Betty was taken, and then the lesson was resumed. At the close of the afternoon Bobby announced that Betty was in a fair way to become a good horsewoman.
Mr. and Mrs. Littell took them into Washington to the theater that night, and to make up the hours of lost sleep all the young people slept late the next morning.
Instead of going into Washington to church, they all went to the little country church that Mrs. Littell attended and loved, and after the service they spent a quiet, pleasant day about the house and grounds of Fairfields.
That evening the five girls and Bob gathered on the spacious white steps of the house to watch the beautiful Virginia sunset.
“Let’s promise each other,” suggested Betty, her pretty face serious and thoughtful, “to meet five years from now, wherever we may be, and compare notes. We’ll be almost grown up then and know what we’re going to be.”
“No matter how often we meet, or how seldom, five years from today we’ll promise to come together,” agreed Bobby. “Here’s my seal.”
She put out her hand and the hands of the six interlocked in a tower.
“To our close friendship,” murmured Betty, as they unclasped.
Then, the sun having set, they went into the glow and welcome of the lighted lamps.
BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL, by Alice B. Emerson
or, The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune
CHAPTER I
BREAKFAST EN ROUTE
“There, Bob, did you see that? Oh, we’ve passed it, and you were looking the other way. It was a cowboy. At least he looked just like the pictures. And he was waving at the train.”
Betty Gordon, breakfasting in the dining-car of the Western Limited, smiled happily at Bob Henderson, seated on the opposite side of the table. This was her first long train trip, and she meant to enjoy every angle of it.
“I wonder what kind of cowboy you’d make, Bob?” Betty speculated, studying the frank, boyish face of her companion. “You’d have to be taller, I think.”
“But not much thinner,” observed Bob cheerfully. “Skinny cowboys are always in demand, Betty. They do more work. Well, what do you know about that!” He broke off his speech abruptly and stared at the table directly behind Betty.
Betty paid little attention to his silence. She was busy with her own thoughts, and now, pouring golden cream into her coffee, voiced one of them.
“I’m glad we’re going to Oklahoma,” she announced. “I think it is heaps more fun to stop before you get to the other side of the continent. I want to see what is in the middle. The Arnolds, you know, went direct to California, and now they’ll probably never know what kind of country takes up the space between Pineville and Los Angeles. Of course they saw some of it from the train, but that isn’t like getting off and staying. Is it, Bob?”
“I suppose not,” agreed Bob absently. “Betty Gordon,” he added with a change of tone, “is that coffee you’re drinking?”
Betty nodded guiltily.
“When I’m traveling,” she explained in her defense, “I don’t see why I can’t drink coffee for breakfast. And when I’m visiting—that’s the only two times I take it, Bob.”
Bob had been minded to read her a lecture on the evils of coffee drinking for young people, but his gaze wandered again to the table behind Betty, and his scientific protest remained unspoken.
“For goodness sake, Bob,” complained Betty, “what can you be staring at?”
“Don’t turn around,” cautioned Bob in a low tone. “When we go back to our car I’ll tell you all about it.”
Bob gave his attention more to his breakfast after this, and seemed anxious to keep Betty from asking any more questions. He noticed a package of flat
envelopes lying under her purse and asked if she had letters she wished mailed.
“Those aren’t letters,” answered Betty, taking them out and spreading them on the cloth for him to see. “They’re flower seeds, Bob. Hardy flowers.”
“You haven’t planned your garden yet, have you?” cried the astonished boy. “When you haven’t the first idea of the kind of place you’re going to live in? Your uncle wrote, you know, that living in Flame City was so simplified people didn’t take time to look around for rooms or a house—they took whatever they could get, sure that that was all there was. How do you know you’ll have a place to plant a garden?”
Betty buttered another roll.
“I’m not planning for a garden,” she said mildly. “You’re going to help me plant these seeds, and we’re going to do it right after breakfast—just as soon as we can get out on the observation platform.”
Bob stared in bewilderment.
“I read a story once,” said Betty with seeming irrelevance. “It was about some woman who traveled through a barren country, mile after mile. She was on an accommodation train, too, or perhaps it was before they had good railroad service. And every so often her fellow-passengers saw that she threw something out of the window. They couldn’t see what it was, and she never told them. But the next year, when some of these same passengers made that trip again, the train rolled through acres and acres of the most gorgeous red poppies. The woman had been scattering the seed. She said, whether she ever rode over that ground again or not, she was sure some of the seeds would sprout and make the waste places beautiful for travelers.”
“I should think it would take a lot of seed,” said the practical Bob, his eyes following two men who were leaving the dining-car. “Did you get poppies, too?”
“Yellow and red ones,” declared Betty. “The dealer said they were very hardy, and, anyway, I do want to try, Bob. We’ve been through such miles of prairie, and it’s so deadly monotonous. Even if none of my seed grows near the railroad, the wind may carry some off to some lonely farm home and then they’ll give the farmer’s wife a gay surprise. Let’s fling the seed from the observation car, shall we?”
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 211
