CHAPTER III
DINING OUT
FOR a moment Mr. Gordon stared at his niece, a puzzled look in hiseyes. Then his face cleared.
"Oh, I see. You've made a natural mistake," he said. "Mrs. Peabodydoesn't live out West, Betty, but up-state--about one hundred and fiftymiles north of Pineville. I've picked up that word ranch in California.Everything outside the town limits, from a quarter of an acre to athousand, is called a ranch. I should have said farm."
Betty settled back in the buggy, momentarily disappointed. A farmsounded so tame and--and ordinary.
"The plan came to me while I was sitting out on the porch waiting fordinner," pursued her uncle, unconscious that he had dashed her hopes."Your father and I had such a happy childhood on a farm that I'm surehe would want you to know something about such a life first-hand. Butof course I intend to talk it over with you before writing to Agatha."
"Agatha?" repeated Betty.
"Mrs. Peabody," explained Mr. Gordon. "She and I went to schooltogether. Last year I happened to run across her brother out in themines. He told me that Agatha had married, rather well, I understood,and was living on a fine, large farm. What did he say they called theirplace? 'Bramble Farm'--yes, that's it."
"Bramble Farm," echoed Betty. "It sounds like wild roses, doesn't it,Uncle Dick? But suppose Mrs. Peabody doesn't want me to come to livewith her?"
"Bless your heart, child, this is no permanent arrangement!" exclaimedher uncle vigorously. "You're my girl, and mighty proud I am to havesuch a bonny creature claiming kin with me. I've knocked about a goodbit, and sometimes the going has been right lonesome."
He seemed to have forgotten the subject of Bramble Farm for the moment,and something in his voice made Betty put out a timid hand and strokehis coat sleeve silently.
"All right, dear," he declared suddenly, throwing off the serious moodwith the quick shift that Betty was to learn was characteristic of him."If your old bachelor uncle had the slightest idea where he would betwo weeks from now, he'd take you with him and not let you out of hissight. But I don't know; though I strongly suspect, and it's no placeto take a young lady to. However, if we can fix it up with Agatha foryou to spend the summer with her, perhaps matters will shape up betterin the fall. I'll tell her to get you fattened up a bit; she ought tohave plenty of fresh eggs and milk."
Betty made a wry face.
"I don't want to be fat, Uncle Dick," she protested. "I remember a fatgirl in school, and she had an awful time. Is Mrs. Peabody old?"
Mr. Gordon laughed.
"That's a delicate question," he admitted. "She's some three or fouryears younger than I, I believe, and I'm forty-two. Figure it out tosuit yourself."
The bay horse had had its own sweet way so far, and now stoppedshort, the road barred by a wide gate. It turned its head and lookedreproachfully at the occupants of the buggy.
"Bless me, I never noticed where we were going," said Mr. Gordon,surprised. "What's this we're in, Betty, a private lane? Where does itlead?"
"Let me open the gate," cried Betty, one foot on the step. "We're inMr. Bradway's meadow. Uncle Dick. We can keep right on and come out onthe turnpike. He doesn't care as long as the gates are kept closed."
"I'll open the gate," said Mr. Gordon decidedly. "Take the reins anddrive on through."
Betty obeyed, and Mr. Gordon swung the heavy gate into place again andfastened it.
"Is Mrs. Peabody pretty?" asked Betty, as he took his place beside herand gathered up the lines. "Has she any children?"
The blue eyes surveyed her quizzically.
"A real girl, aren't you?" teased her uncle. "Why, child, I couldn'ttell you to save me, whether Agatha is pretty or not. I haven't seenher for years. But she has no children. Her brother, Lem, told me that.She was a pretty girl." Mr. Gordon added reflectively: "I recollect shehad long yellow braids and very blue eyes. Yes, she's probably a prettywoman."
To reach the turnpike they had to pass through another barred gate, andthen when they did turn into the main road, Mr. Gordon, glancing at hiswatch, uttered an exclamation.
"Four o'clock," he announced. "Why, it must have been later than Ithought when we started. The horse has taken its own sweet time. Look,Betty, is there a place around here where we can get some ice-cream?"
Betty's eyes danced. Like most twelve-year-old girls, she regardedice-cream as a treat.
"There's a place in Pineville; but let's not go there--the whole towngoes to the drug-store in the afternoons," she answered. "Couldn't wego as far as Harburton and stop at the ice-cream parlor? The horseisn't very tired, is it, Uncle Dick?"
"Considering the pace he has been going, I doubt it," responded heruncle. "What's the matter with you and me having a regular lark, Betty?Let's not go back for supper--we'll have it at the hotel. They can putup the horse, and we'll drive back when it's cooler."
Betty was thrilled at the idea of eating supper at the Harburton Hotel;certainly that would be what she called "exciting." But since hermother's death she had learned to think not only for herself but forothers.
"Mrs. Arnold would be so worried," she objected, trying to keep thelonging out of her voice. "She'd think we'd been struck at the gradecrossing. And, Uncle Dick, I don't believe this dress is good enough."
But Mr. Gordon was not accustomed to being balked by objections. Heswept Betty's aside with a half-dozen words. They would telephoneto Mrs. Arnold. Well, then, if she had no telephone, they wouldtelephone a near neighbor and get her to carry the message. As for thedress--here he glanced contentedly at Betty--he didn't see but that shelooked fine enough to attend the King's wedding. She could wash andfreshen up a little when they reached the hotel.
Betty's face glowed.
"You're just like Daddy," she said happily. "Mother used to say shenever had to worry about anything when he was at home. Mrs. Arnolddoesn't either, when her husband's home. Do all husbands do thedeciding, Uncle Dick?"
Mr. Gordon submitted, amusedly, that as he was not a husband, he couldnot give accurate information on that point. But Betty's active mindwas turning over something.
"Mrs. Arnold says Mr. Arnold makes the boys stand round," she confided."I notice they mind him ten times as quick as they do their mother. Butthey love him more. Do you make people stand round, Uncle Dick?"
Mr. Gordon smiled down into the serious little face tilted to meet hisglance.
"I haven't much patience with disobedience, I'm afraid," he replied. "Isuppose some of the men I've bossed would consider me a Tartar. Why,Betty? Are you thinking of going on strike against my authority? Idon't advise you to try it."
Betty blushed.
"It isn't that," she said hastily. "But--but--well, I have a temper,Uncle Dick. I get so raging mad! If I don't tell you, some one elsewill, or else you'll see me 'acting up,' as Mrs. Arnold says, beforeyou go. So I thought I'd better tell you."
Mr. Gordon's lips twitched.
"A temper, out of control, is a mighty useless possession," he saidsolemnly. "But as long as you know you've got a spark of fire in you,Betty, you can watch out for it. Afraid of going on the rampage whileyou're at Bramble Farm? Is that what's worrying you?"
"Some," confessed his niece, with scarlet cheeks.
"I'll tell you what to do," counseled Mr. Gordon, and his even, ratherslow voice soothed Betty inexpressibly. "When you get a 'mad fit,' youfly out to the wood pile and chop kindling as hard as you can. Youcan't talk and chop wood, and the tongue does most of the mischief whenour tempers get the best of us. You'll remember that little trick,won't you?"
Betty promised she would, and, as they were now driving into thethriving county seat of Harburton, she began to point out the fewplaces of interest.
The hotel was opposite the court house, and as they stopped before thecurb and Betty saw the porch well filled with men, with here and therea woman in a pretty summer dress, she felt extremely shy. A boy ran upto take their horse and lead it around to the stables for a rub-downand a comfortable supper. Mr. Gordon t
ucked his niece's hand under hisarm and marched unconcernedly up the hotel steps.
"I suppose he's used to hotels," thought Betty, sinking into one ofthe stuffed red velvet chairs at her uncle's bidding and lookinginterestedly about her as he went in search of the proprietor. "Iwonder if it's fun to live in a hotel all the time instead of a house."
Her uncle came back in a few moments with a pleasant-faced, matronlywoman, whom he introduced as the sister of the proprietor. She was totake Betty upstairs and let her make herself neat for supper, whichwould, so the woman said, be ready in twenty minutes.
"I'll wait for you right here," promised Mr. Gordon, divining inBetty's anxious glance a fear that she would have to search for him onthe crowded piazza.
"You drove in, didn't you?" asked Mrs. Holmes, leading the way upstairsand ushering Betty into a pretty, chintz-hung room. "You'll find freshwater in the pitcher, dear. Didn't your father say you were fromPineville?"
Betty, pouring the clear, cool water into the basin, explained that Mr.Gordon was her uncle and said that they had driven over from Pinevillethat afternoon.
"Well, you want to be careful driving back," cautioned Mrs. Holmes."The flag man goes off duty at six o'clock, and that crossing liesright in a bad cut. There was a nasty accident there last week."
Betty had read of it in the _Pineville Post_, and thanked Mrs. Holmesfor her warning. When that kind woman had ascertained that Betty needednothing more, she excused herself and went down to superintend the twowaitresses.
Betty managed to smooth her hair nicely with the aid of a convenientsidecomb, and after bathing her face and hands felt quite refreshed andneat again. She found her uncle reading a magazine.
"Well, you look first rate," he greeted her. "I picked this up off thetable without glancing at it; it's a fashion magazine. It reminds me,Betty, you'll need some new clothes this summer, eh? You'll have totake Mrs. Arnold when you go shopping. I wouldn't know a bonnet from apair of gloves."
Betty laughed and slipped her hand into his, and they went toward thedining room. What a dear Uncle Dick was! She had not had many newclothes since her father's death.
Betty Gordon at Bramble Farm; Or, The Mystery of a Nobody Page 3
