Betty Gordon in Washington Part 6

"I didn't say," she said evenly. "I--I don't think it's fair to ask me."

"But you know," snapped Mr. Peabody. "I guess I have a right to know where he's gone. I'm responsible for him. I've got papers that show it. The poorhouse folks are going to ask me what becomes of him. You just tell me where he went, and I'll satisfy 'em. I won't follow him and try to bring him back, Betty. He's too old for that. Making his bed, he'll have to lie on it. I won't follow him."

The girl twisted her handkerchief nervously. She was not afraid of the man. That is, she feared no physical violence at his hands, but he was capable, she knew, of forcing her back to the farm and locking her up in her room till she furnished him with the required information. And what harm could it do Bob? It was not likely that Peabody could find the boy in a large city.

"He won't be made to come back," repeated her tormentor.

"I wish I could believe you," said Betty pitifully.

She looked so young and helpless, trying to pit her girlish intelligence and strength against the wily miser, that another man would have been ashamed to press her. Not so Peabody--he had always considered that he was ent.i.tled to whatever he could get from others, information, cash, or work, it mattered not.

They were approaching the Durling farm now, and suddenly Betty's pointed chin lifted.

"I won't tell you!" she said firmly. "I do know where Bob went, but he was perfectly justified in leaving a place where he was treated worse than a dog. You would do him no good--I'm sure of that. And if the poorhouse authorities make a fuss about his running off, I'll tell them what he had to endure."

Joseph Peabody's mouth dropped in astonishment. He had seen Betty lose her temper before, but she had never so openly defied him.

"You think you're high and mighty," he sneered. "Let me tell you, Miss, there's more ways than one of getting what you want in this world. Joe Peabody isn't checkmated very often, and it takes more than an impudent girl to do it. I'm going into Lem Durling's and telephone Jim Turner, the poormaster. I kind of surmise he can give me a line on the direction Bob's taken."

Betty walked on, disdaining to answer, her head very high in the air but her heart in her shoes. Jim Turner would be sure to tell of Lockwood Hale, and Mr. Peabody would be astute enough to guess that Bob's destination was Was.h.i.+ngton.

When she reached Doctor Guerin's house, between the heat and the dust and the long walk and her anxiety, she was in a highly excited state, and the doctor's wife made her lie down on the couch and rest before she would allow her to telephone to the Benders. Mrs. Bender's sister answered the telephone. The recorder and his wife had made a detour on their homeward trip that would extend their absence for another week.

"Betty, you'll be ill if you're going to get all worked up like this," scolded Mrs. Guerin, for Betty was crying as she hung up the receiver. "I never saw you so unstrung, my dear. You won't be fit to go to your uncle when he does send for you. I wonder if the doctor hadn't better see you?"

Norma and Alice Guerin, two pretty girls, the former about Betty's age, the latter a year or two older, looked at her anxiously. Betty in tears was an unusual sight to them.

"I'm all right," gulped that young person, inwardly alarmed at the thought of being too ill to travel when the word came. "I didn't sleep very well last night, thinking of Bob. Is that the secretary he bid on at the Faulkner sale?"

Knowing that the quickest way for Betty to get control of her nerves was to forget her troubles, Mrs. Guerin entered into an enthusiastic description of the beauties of the old desk, showing the secret drawer and the half score of carved pigeonholes and dwelling on the doctor's delight in securing such a treasure at a bargain. Mrs.

Guerin succeeded in having Betty more like her old self before Doctor Hal Guerin came in from a round of calls.

He was delighted to see Betty, who was an especial favorite of his, and much interested in her account of Bob's flight.

"Did the lad have money enough?" he growled. "I suppose he'd walk before he'd borrow from me."

"He had enough," Betty a.s.sured him. "All the charms you sold for him amounted to quite a lot, and he had saved every cent of that."

"And you probably helped him out," commented the doctor shrewdly.

"Well, well, the lad may yet whittle his way to fame and fortune."

He referred to Bob's knack for fas.h.i.+oning pretty and quaint little wooden charms and pendants, which he polished to satin smoothness and painted and stained in bright colors. Norma Guerin had worn one at boarding school, and it was through her and her father that Bob had secured a large number of orders which had netted him a tidy little sum.

When the time came for Betty to go, the doctor insisted that he would take her as far as the lane, and on the trip she told him that as soon as she heard from her uncle she meant to pack her trunk and leave for Was.h.i.+ngton.

"I don't like the idea of your making the journey alone," grumbled Doctor Guerin; "but I don't see who there is to go with you. One thing, Betty girl, brus.h.i.+ng up against the Peabodys has given you a practical fund of self-reliance. You're better fitted than Alice to find your way about alone. Not that I would have chosen to have you get your knocks just in the manner they've been handed to you, but the results leave nothing to be desired. You're standing squarely on your own feet, Betsey, and it's this summer's grilling training that has done it."

CHAPTER VII

A BELATED LETTER

The hay was all baled by the next morning, and the balers, atop the lumbering machine, caroled loudly if not musically as the fat horses dragged them slowly up the lane. Neat bales of hay were piled high on the barn floor, to be carted over to Hagar's Corners and loaded on a freight car. That would be Ethan's job, and he grumbled at the prospect of doing it without Bob's help.

Betty, coming in from the garden, stumbled over something in the narrow entry. It was a man's coat--Mr. Peabody's, she recognized when she picked it up and shook it slightly to free it from dust. A letter fell from the pocket as she replaced it on the hook where it usually hung, and, stopping to pick it up, she saw to her surprise that it was addressed to her.

"From Was.h.i.+ngton!" she said aloud, deciphering the postmark. "And mailed five days ago! He's carried it in his pocket ever since it came!"

At first she feared it had been read, but evidently Mr. Peabody had not troubled to open it; so hastily tearing the envelope, she read the brief note. A check was enclosed for her, and Mr. Gordon suggested that she go to Pineville and visit old friends there for a week or two until his plans were definitely shaped.

"I know the Arnolds are in California," he wrote; "but the Bensingers will be glad to have you, or any of your mother's old friends. You do not have to stay one minute where you are unhappy."

Betty looked up as a shadow fell across the sunny floor. It was Mr.

Peabody, and he had the grace to show confusion when he saw the letter in her hand.

Betty sprang to her feet.

"Why did you keep my letter?" she demanded hotly. "How did you dare to hold back mail? This must have been in your coat pocket three or four days. It was mailed five days ago!"

"Been rummaging in my coat pocket, have you?" sneered the farmer.

"I have not! The coat was on the floor, and I fell over it. The letter fell out while I was trying to hang it up. No one has a right to hold back another person's mail!"

"Now hold your horses," advised Peabody pacifically. "Who's been holding back mail? If a body takes the mail out of the box and carries it around in his coat a day or two, because he doesn't remember it, that ain't such a crime that I ever knew. I just forgot there was a letter for you."

Betty turned away in disgust and went out to her favorite apple tree to think things over. She did not believe for one moment that Mr.

Peabody had forgotten her letter. Indeed, absent-mindedness was far from being one of his traits. However, there was absolutely nothing to be gained by arguing, and the way was now clear for her to leave Bramble Farm. Surely the worst of her troubles were over.

"I might go to Pineville," she thought meditatively. "I'd love to see the Bensingers again and the dear little house where we lived.

I'll pack this afternoon."

Betty was an orderly little person, and at her work that afternoon she stopped frequently to sew on a b.u.t.ton here, to mend a rip in this garment or to whip a frayed edge that might mar an otherwise dainty belonging. Singing softly over her task, a timid knock at her door wakened the girl from a happy reverie.

"Come in, Mrs. Peabody," she called cheerfully. "Do sit down and give me advice about where things should go. I thought I hadn't bought anything this summer, but I seem to have a great deal more stuff than I brought with me."

"You're packing then?" asked Mrs. Peabody, taking a chair near the bed and regarding Betty oddly. "Are you really going, Betty?"

"Oh, yes," Betty answered matter-of-factly, "Uncle d.i.c.k wants me to stop in Pineville and visit old friends for a bit. And there's no use in pretending, Mrs. Peabody, that--that--"

"No, I suppose not," sighed the woman, understanding only too well.

"Land knows, if I could get away I'd have no misgivings about the right of it. I'll miss you, though. You've been a sight of company this summer, and no one could have been sweeter to me, Betty."

"Agatha!" came a stentorian shout from the front hall. "Are you going to stay up there all day?"

"My stars, I forgot what I came up for!" Mrs. Peabody rose hurriedly. "Joseph sent me up to tell you he wanted to ask you something, Betty. And here I sit right down and him waiting there all this time!"