Betty Gordon at Boarding School | Page 9

him. "But wait till we get home. I want Ki to have a piece, too."
Ki, it developed, when they reached the Watterby farm, had been busy with farewell plans of his own.
"For you," he announced gravely to Bob, handing him an immense hunting knife as he stepped out of the car.
"For you," he informed Betty with equal gravity, presenting her a little silver nugget.
They both thanked him repeatedly, and he stalked off, carrying his piece of the apple tart and apparently assured of their sincerity.
"Though what he expects me to do with a hunting knife is more than I can guess," laughed Bob.

CHAPTER V
A REGULAR CROSS-PATCH
"Be sure you send me a postal from Washington. I never knew anybody from there before," said Grandma Watterby earnestly.
"And don't get off the train unless you know how long it's going to stop," advised Will Watterby.
"Do you think you ate enough breakfast?" his wife asked anxiously.
Bob and Betty were waiting for the Eastern Limited, and the Watterby family, who had brought them to the station, were waiting, too. The Limited stopped only on signal, and this was no every day occurrence.
"We'll be all right," said Bob earnestly. "You can look for a postal from Chicago first, Grandma."
Then came the usual hurried good-byes, the kisses and handshakes and the repeated promises to "write soon." Then Bob and Betty found themselves in the sleeper, waving frantically to the little group on the platform as the Limited slowly got under way.
"And that's the last of Flame City--for some time at least," observed Bob.
Betty, who had made excellent use of lessons learned in her few previous long journeys, took off her hat and gloves and placed them in a paper bag which Bob put in the rack for her.
"I did want a new hat so much," she sighed, looking rather enviously at the woman across the aisle who wore a smart Fall hat that was unmistakably new. "But Flame City depends on mail order hats and I thought it safer to wait till I could see what people are really wearing."
"You look all right," said Bob loyally. "What's that around that woman's neck--fur? Why I'm so hot I can hardly breathe."
"It's mink," Betty informed him with superiority. "Isn't it beautiful? I wanted a set, but Uncle Dick said mink was too old for me. He did say, though, that I can have a neckpiece made from that fox skin Ki gave me."
"Don't see why you want to tie yourself up like an Eskimo," grumbled Bob. "Well, we seem to be headed toward the door marked 'Education,' don't we, Betsey?"
They exchanged a smile of understanding.
Bob was passionately eager for what he called "regular schooling," that is the steady discipline of fixed lessons, the companionship of boys of his own age, and the give and take of the average large, busy school. Normal life of any kind was out of the question in the poorhouse where he had spent the first ten years of his life, and after that he had not seen the inside of a schoolroom. He had read whatever books he could pick up while at Bramble Farm, and in the knowledge of current events was remarkably well-posted, thanks to his steady assimilation of newspapers and magazines since leaving the Peabody roof. But he feared, and with some foundation, that he might be found deplorably lacking in the most rudimentary branches.
Betty, of course, had gone to school regularly until her mother's death. In the year that had elapsed she had thought little of lessons, and though she did not realize it, she had lost to a great extent the power of application. Systematic study of any kind might easily prove a hardship for the active Betty. Still she was eager to study again, perhaps prepare for college. More than anything else she craved girl friends.
"Let's go in for lunch at the first call," suggested Betty presently. "I didn't eat much breakfast, and I don't believe you did either."
"I swallowed a cup of boiling coffee," admitted Bob, "but that's all I remember. So I'm ready when you are."
Seated at a table well toward the center of the car, Betty's attention was attracted to a girl who sat facing her. She was not a pretty girl. She looked discontented and peevish, and the manner in which she addressed the waiter indicated that she felt under no obligation to disguise her feelings.
"Take that back," she ordered, pointing a beautifully manicured hand at a dish just placed before her. "If you can't bring me a poached egg that isn't raw, don't bother at all. And I hope you don't intend to call this cream?"
Bob glanced swiftly over at the table. The girl consciously tucked back a lock of stringy hair, displaying the flash of several diamonds.
"Sweet disposition, hasn't she?" muttered Bob