Betty Gordon at Mountain Camp by Alice B. Emerson

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"Well, of all the--Why, Betty!" exclaimed Mr. Gordon, "you know you must
go right back to school."

"Yes, I know," sighed Betty. "It is like the fruits of Tantalus, isn't it?
We read about him in Greek mythology--poor fellow! He stood up to his chin
in water and over his head hung the loveliest fruits. But when he stooped
to get a drink the water receded, and when he stood on tiptoe to reach the
fruit, they receded too. It was dreadful! And Mountain Camp, where your
friend Mr. Canary lives, is just like that. Uncle Dick. For us it is the
fruits of Tantalus."

Uncle Dick stared at her for a moment, then he burst out laughing. But
Betty Gordon remained perfectly serious until they arrived at Fairfields.

CHAPTER III

OFF FOR A GALLOP

The crowd at the Littell lunch table (and it was literally a "crowd"
although the Guerin girls and some of the other over Christmas visitors
had already gone home) hailed Betty's arrival vociferously.

"How do you stand it?" asked Uncle Dick, smiling at Mrs. Littell who
presided at one end of the table. "I should think they would drive you
distracted."

Mrs. Littell laughed jovially and beamed at her young company. "I am only
distracted when Mr. Littell and I are here alone," she rejoined. "This is
what keeps us young."

"You've only a shake to eat in, Betty," exclaimed Bobby Littell, who was
very dark and very gay and very much alive all of the time. "Do hurry.
We're 'most through."

"Dear me! what can I eat in a shake?" murmured Betty, as the soup was
placed before her. "And I am hungry."

"A milk-shake should be absorbed in a shake," observed Bob Henderson,
grinning at her from across the table.

"I need more than that, Bob, after what I have been through this morning.
Such a job as shopping is! And oh, Bobby! I've got the loveliest thing to
show you. You'll just squeal!"

"What is it?" cried Bobby, eager and big-eyed at once. "Do hurry your
luncheon, Betty. We've all got to change, and it's almost time."

"Time for what?" demanded Betty, trying to eat daintily but hurriedly.

But Mrs. Littell called them to order here. "Give Betty time to eat
properly. Whatever it is, Betty, it can't begin until you are ready."

"I'm through, Mother," said Bobby. "May I be excused? I'll have to help
Esther, you know. You'd better forget your appetite, Betty," she whispered
as she passed the latter on her way out of the room. "Time and tide wait
for no man--or girl either."

"What does she mean?" wondered Betty, and became a little anxious as the
others began to rise, too, and were excused. "Have we got to change? What
is it--the movies? Or a party? Of course, it isn't skating? Even if there
was a little scale of ice last night, it would never in this world bear
us," added Betty, utterly puzzled.

Bob Henderson had slipped around to her side of the table and leaned over
her chair back to whisper in Betty's ear:

"You've got to be ready in twenty minutes. The horses won't stand this
cold weather--not under saddle."

"Saddle! Horses!" gasped Betty Gordon, rising right up from the table with
the soup spoon in her hand. "I--I don't believe I want any more luncheon,
Mrs. Littell. Really, I don't need any more. Will you please excuse me?"

"Not if you run away with my spoon, Betty," laughed her hostess. "It was
the dish that ran away with the spoon, and you are not a dish, dear."

"She'll be dished if she doesn't hurry," called Bob from the door, and
then he disappeared.

"Sit down and finish your luncheon, Betty," advised Mrs. Littell. "I
assure you that they will not go without you. The men can walk the horses
about a little if it is necessary."

"I haven't been in a saddle since I left the land of oil and my own dear
Clover-pony!" cried Betty later, as she ran upstairs. "I know just where
my riding habit is. Oh, dear! I hope I have as spirited a horse as dear
Clover was. Are you all ready, Bobby? And you, too, Louise--and Esther?
Goodness me! suppose Carter had broken down on the road and hadn't brought
me back in time----

"Libbie! For goodness' sake don't sit down in that chair. That package has
got the loveliest orange silk over-blouse in it. Wait till you see it,
Bobby."

She fairly dragged the plump girl, Libbie, away from the proximity of the
chair in question and then began to scramble into her riding dress. The
clatter of hoofs was audible on the drive as she fixed the plain gold pin
in her smart stock.

"Of course," Betty said with a sigh, "one can't wear a locket, with or
without a chain, when one is riding. That dear locket Uncle Dick gave me!
I suppose it is safe enough in my bag. Well, I'm ready."

They all ran down to the veranda to see the mounts. Betty's was a
beautiful gray horse named Jim that she had seen before in the Fairfields
stables.

"He's sort of hard-bitted, Miss," said the smiling negro who held the
bridle and that of Bobby's own pony, a beautiful bay. "But he ain't got a
bad trick and is as kind as a lamb, Miss."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of him," declared Betty. "You ought to see my Clover.
All right, Uncle Dick, I'm up!"

They were all mounted and cantering down the drive in a very few minutes.
Even plump little Libbie sat her steed well, for she had often ridden over
her own Vermont hills.

"I don't know where we're going, but I'm on my way!" cried Betty, who was
delighted to be once more in the saddle.

"We're going right across country to Bolter's stock farm," Louise told
her. "Here's where we turn off. There will be some fences. Can you jump a
fence, Betty?"

"I can go anywhere this gray horse goes," declared Betty proudly.

But Bob rode up beside her before they came to the first jump. "Look out
for the icy places, Betsey," he warned her. "None of these horses are
sharpened. They never have ice enough down here in Virginia to worry
about, so they say."

Which was true enough on ordinary occasions. But the frost the night
before had been a hard one and the air was still tingling with it. In the
shady places the pools remained skimmed over. A gallop over the fields and
through the woodland paths put both the horses and riders in a glow of
excitement.

Perhaps Betty was a little careless--at least too confident. Her gray got
the lead and sped away across some rough ground which bordered a ravine.
Bob shouted again for her to be careful, and Betty turned and waved her
hand reassuringly to him.

It was just then that Jim slipped on the edge of the bank. Both of his
front feet slid on an icy patch and he almost came to his knees. Betty
saved herself from going over his head by a skillful lunge backward,
pulling sharply on the reins.

But the horse did not so easily regain his foot-hold. The edge of the bank
crumbled. Betty did not utter a sound, but the girls behind her screamed
in unison.

"Stop! Wait! She'll be killed!"

Betty knew that Bob was coming at a thundering pace on his brown mount;
but the gray horse was on its haunches, sliding down the slope of the
ravine, snorting as it went. Betty could not stop her horse, but she clung
manfully to the reins and sat back in her saddle as though glued to it.

Just what would happen when they reached the bottom of the slope was a
very serious question.

CHAPTER IV

A SECOND IDA BELLETHORNE

The ravine was forty feet deep, and although the path, down which the gray
horse slid with Betty Gordon on his back, was of sand and gravel only,
there were some boulders and thick brush at the bottom that threatened
disaster to both victims of the accident.

Swiftly and more swiftly the frightened horse slid, and the girl had no
idea what she should do when they came, bumpy-ti-bump to the bottom.

She heard Bob shouting something to her, but she did not immediately
comprehend what he said. Something, she thought it was, about her
stirrups. But this was no time or place to look to see if her stirrup
leathers were the proper length or if her feet were firmly fixed in the
irons, which both Bob and Uncle Dick had warned her about when first she
had begun to ride.

Although she dared not look back, Betty knew that Bob had galloped to the
very edge of the ravine and had now flung himself from his saddle. She
heard his boots slam into the sliding gravel of the hill. He shouted
again--that cheery hail that somehow helped Betty to hold on to her fast
vanishing courage.

"Kick your feet out of the stirrups, Betty!"

What he meant finally seeped into Betty's clouded brain. She realized that
Bob Henderson, her chum, the boy she had learned to have such confidence
in, was coming down that bank in mighty strides, prepared to save her if
it was possible.

The gray horse was struggling and snorting; he was likely to tumble
sideways at any moment. If he did, and Betty was caught under him----

But she was not caught in any such crushing pressure. It was Bob's arm
around her waist that squeezed her. She had kicked her feet loose of the
stirrups, and now Bob, throwing himself backward, tore her out of the
saddle. He fell upon his back, and Betty, struggling and laughing and
almost crying, fell on top of him.

"All right, Betty! All right!" gasped Bob. "No need to squeal now."

"Who's squealing?" she demanded. "Let me up, do! Are you hurt, Bob?"

"Only the wind knocked out of me. Woof! You all right?"

"Oh, my dear!" shrieked Bobby at the top of the bank. "Are you killed,
Betty?"

"Only half killed," gasped Betty. "Don't worry. Spread the news. Elizabeth
Gordon, Miss Sharpe's prize Latin scholar, will yet return to Shadyside
to make glad the heart of----"

"She's all right," broke in Tommy Tucker, having dismounted and looking
over the brink of the bank. "She's trying to be funny. Her neck isn't
broken."

"I declare, Tommy!" cried Louise Littell admonishingly, "you sound as
though you rather thought her poor little neck ought to be dislocated."

"Cheese!" gasped Teddy, Tommy's twin. "You got that word out of a book,
Louise--you know you did."

"So I did; out of the dictionary. There are a lot more of them there, if
you want to know," and Louise laughed.

"Oh!" at this point rose a yearning cry. "Oh!" I just think he is too dear
for anything!"

"Cracky! What's broke loose now?" demanded Tommy Tucker, jerking back his
head to stare all around at the group on the brink of the high bank.

"Who is too expensive, Libbie?" asked Bobby, glancing at her cousin with a
look of annoyance displayed in her features.

"Robert Henderson. He is a hero!" gasped the plump girl.

"I know that hero has torn his coat," Louise said, still gazing down into
the ravine.

Of course Bob had played a heroic part; but the rest of those present
would have considered it almost indecent to speak of it as Libbie did. She
continued to clasp her hands and gaze soulfully into the ravine. Bob,
having made sure that Betty was all right, had gone down to the bottom of
the slope and helped the gray horse to its feet. The animal was more
frightened than hurt, although its legs were scratched some and it favored
one fore foot when Bob walked it about.

"Dear me!" cried Betty, coming closer. "Poor old Jim! Is he hurt much,
Bob?"

"I don't believe so," her friend replied.

"Can we get him up the bank?"

"I won't try that if there is any outlet to this ravine--and there must
be, of course. Say! do you hear that silly girl?"

"Who? Libbie?" Betty began to giggle. "She is going to make a hero of you,
Bob, whether you want to be or not. And you are----"

"Now, don't you begin," growled Bob.

"I never saw such a modest fellow," laughed Betty, giving his free hand a
little squeeze.

"Huh! Libbie will want to put a laurel wreath on my brow if I climb up
there. See! There is a bunch of laurels right over there--those
glossy-leaved, runty sort of trees. Not for me! I am going to lead Jim out
ahead, and you climb up, if you want to, and come along with the rest of
the bunch. Ride my horse, if you will, Betty."

"So you'd run away from a girl!" scoffed Betty, but laughing. "You are no
hero, Bob Henderson."

"Sure I'm not," he agreed cheerfully. "And I'd run away from a girl like
Libbie any day. I wonder how Timothy Derby stands for her. But he's almost
as mushy as a soft pumpkin!"

With this disrespectful observation Bob started off with the gray horse
and Betty scrambled up the bank down which she had plunged so heedlessly.

Bobby was one of those who had dismounted at the brink of the ravine, and
she held out a brown hand to Betty as the latter scrambled up the last
yard or two of the steep bank and helped her to a secure footing.

"Are you all right, Betty dear?" she cried.

"No. One side of me is left," laughed Betty. "Wasn't that some slide?"

"Now, don't try to make out that you did it on purpose!" exclaimed Esther,
the youngest Littell sister.

"It was too lovely for anything," sighed Libbie.

"I'm glad you think so," said Betty. "Oh! you mean what Bob did. I see. Of
course he is lovely--always has been. But don't tell him so, for it
utterly spoils boys if you praise them--doesn't it Bobby?"

"Of course it does," agreed Betty's particular chum, whose real name,
Roberta, was seldom used even by her parents.

"I like that!" chorused the Tucker twins. "Wait till we tell Bob, Betty,"
added Tommy Tucker, shaking his head.

"If you try to slide downhill on horseback again, we'll all just let you
slide to the very bottom," said Teddy.

"Don't fret," returned Betty gaily. "I don't intend to take another such
slide----"

"Not even if your Uncle Dick takes you up to Mountain Camp?" asked Bobby.
"There's fine tobogganing up there, he says. Mmmm!"

"Don't talk about it!" wailed Betty. "You know we can't go, for school
begins next week and Uncle Dick won't hear to anything breaking in on my
schooling."

"Not even measles?" suggested Tommy Tucker solemnly. "Two of the fellows
were quarantined with it when we left Salsette," he added.

"Oh! don't speak of such a horrid thing," gasped Libbie, who did not
consider measles in the least romantic. "You get all speckled like--like a
zebra if you have 'em."

The twins uttered a concerted shout and almost rolled out of their saddles
into which they had again mounted after assisting the girls, Betty being
astride Bob's horse.

"Speckled like a zebra is good!" Bobby Littell said laughingly to her
plump cousin. "I suppose you think a barber's pole is speckled, Libbie?"

These observations attracted the deluded Libbie sufficiently from her
hero-worship, so that when Bob Henderson came up out of the ravine to join
them a mile beyond the scene of the accident, he was perfectly safe from
Libbie's romantic consideration.

The boy and girl friends were then in a deep discussion of the chances,
pro and con, of Betty's Uncle Dick taking her with him to Mountain Camp
despite the imminent opening of the term at Shadyside.

"Of course there is scarcely a possibility of his doing so," Betty said
finally with hopeless mien. "Mr. Canary--Uncle Dick's friend is named
Jonathan Canary, isn't that a funny name?" she interrupted herself to ask.

"He's a bird," declared Teddy Tucker solemnly.

"Nothing romantic sounding about that name," his brother said, with a look
at Libbie. "'Jonathan Canary'--no poetry in that."

"He, he!" chuckled Ted wickedly. "Talking about poetry----"

"But we weren't!" said Bobby Littell. "We were talking about going to
Mountain Camp in the Adirondacks. Think of it--in the dead of winter!"

"Talking about poetry," steadily pursued Teddy Tucker. "You know Timothy
Derby is always gushing."

"A 'gusher,'" interposed Betty primly, "is an oil well that comes in with
a bang."

"Don't you mean it comes out with a bang?" teased Louise.

"In or out, Betty and I have seen 'em gush all right," cried Bob, as they
cantered on together along a well-defined bridle-path.

"Say! I'm telling you something," exploded Teddy Tucker, who did not
purpose to have his tale lost sight of. "Something about Timothy Derby."

"Oh, dear me, yes!" exclaimed Bobby. "Do tell it and get it over, Ted."

The twins both began to chuckle and Teddy had some difficulty in going on
with his story. But it seemed they had been at the Derby place the evening
before and Timothy had been "boring everybody to distraction," Ted said,
reading "Excelsior" to the family.

"And believe me!" interjected Tommy Tucker, "that kid can elocute."

"And he's always been at it," hurried on his twin, giggling. "Here's what
Mr. Derby says Timothy recited the first time he ever spoke a piece at a
Sunday School concert. You know; the stuff the little mites cackle."

"How elegant are your expressions, Teddy!" remarked Louise, sighing.

But she was amused as well as the others when Ted produced a paper on
which he had written down the verse Mr. Derby said his son had recited,
and just as Timothy had said it!

"Listen, all of you," begged Teddy. "Now, don't laugh and spoil it all,
Tom. Listen:

"'Lettuce denby uppan doing
Widow Hartford N E fate,
Still H E ving, still pursuing,
Learn to label Aunty Waite.'"

Libbie's voice rose above the general laughter, and she was quite warm.
For Libbie's was a loyal soul.

"I don't care! I don't believe it. His father is always making fun of
Timothy. He--he is cruel, I think. And, anyway, Timothy was only a little
boy then."

"What did he want to label his Aunty Waite for?" demanded Bob.

"You all be pretty good," called Betty, seeing that Libbie was really
getting angry. "If you aren't I'll ask Timothy and Libbie to my party at
Mountain Camp and none of the rest of you shall go."

"Easy enough said, that, Betty," Bob rejoined. "You haven't very much
chance of going there. But, crimpy! wouldn't it be great if Uncle Dick
did take us?"

"Remember our school duties, children," drawled Louise. "'Still H E ving,
still pursuing.' We must not cry for the moon."

Thus, with a great deal of laughter and good-natured chatter, the
cavalcade trotted on and came finally to what Louise and Bobby said was
the entrance to Bolter's Farm.

"All our horses were raised on this farm," explained Louise. "Daddy says
that Lewis Bolter has the finest stock of any horseman in Virginia. Much
of it is racing stock. He sells to the great stables up north. One of his
men will know what to do for your gray's scratched legs, Betty."

For Betty had changed with Bob again and rode Jim, the horse that had slid
down into the ravine. Betty was really sorry about the scratches and felt
somehow as though she were a little to blame for the accident. She should
have been more careful in guiding the gray.

Once at the great stables and paddocks, however, Betty's mind was relieved
on this point. Louise had an errand from her father to Mr. Bolter and went
away with Esther to interview the horse owner. Mr. Littell was a builder
and constructor and he bought many work horses of Mr. Bolter's raising, as
well as saddle stock.

If there was anything on four feet that Betty and Bob loved, it was a
horse. In the west they had ridden almost continually; their mounts out at
Flame City had been their dearest possessions and they would have been
glad to bring them east, both Betty's Clover-pony and Bob's big white
horse, had it been wise to do so.

At Shadyside and Salsette, however, there had been no opportunity for
horseback riding. They had found pleasure in other forms of outdoor
exercise. Now, enabled to view so many beautiful and sleek horses, Betty,
as well as Bob and the others, dismounted with delight and entered the
long stables.

While her gray was being examined by one of the stablemen, Betty went
along a whole row of box stalls by herself, in each of which a horse was
standing quietly or moving about. More than one came to thrust a soft
muzzle over the door of the stall and with pointed ears and intelligent
gaze seemed to ask if the pretty, brown-eyed girl had something nice in
her pocket.

"Hi, Miss!" croaked a hoarse voice behind her. "If you want to see a
bang-hup 'orse--a real topper--come down 'ere."

Betty turned to see a little crooked man, with one shoulder much higher
than the other, who walked a good deal like a crab, sideways. He grinned
at her cheerfully in spite of his ugly body and twisted features. He
really was a dreadfully homely man, and he was not much taller than Betty
herself. He wore a grimy jockey cap, a blue blouse and stained white
trousers, and it was quite evident that he was one of the stable helpers.

"This 'ere is the lydy for you to see, Miss," continued the little man
eagerly. "She's from old Hengland, Miss. I come with her myself and I've
knowed her since she was foaled. Mr. Bolter ain't got in 'is 'ole stable,
Miss, a mare like this one."

He pointed to a glossy black creature in the end box. Before the animal
raised her head and looked over the gate, Betty knew that the mare from
England was one of the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen.

"Hi, now, 'ow's that for a pretty lydy, Miss?" went on the rubber proudly.

"Oh! See! She knows you! Look at the beauty!" gasped Betty, as the black
mare reached over the gate and gently nipped the blue sleeve of the
crooked little man.

"Knows me? I should sye she does," he said proudly. "Why, she wouldn't
take her meals from nobody but me. I told 'em so w'en I 'eard she was sold
to Hamerica. And they found Hi was right, Miss, afore hever they got 'er
aboard the ship. They sent for me, an' Mr. Bolter gave me a good job with
'er. I goes with Ida Bellethorne wherever she goes. That's the----"

"Ida Bellethorne?" interrupted Betty in amazement

"Yes, Miss. That's 'er nyme. Ida Bellethorne. She comes of the true
Bellethorne stock. The last of the breed out o' the Bellethorne stables,
Miss."

"Ida Bellethorne!" exclaimed Betty again. "Isn't that odd? A horse and a
girl of the same name!"

But this last she did not say audibly. The cockney rubber was fondling the
mare's muzzle and he did not hear Betty's comment. The discovery of this
second Ida Bellethorne excited Betty enormously.

CHAPTER V

MEASLES

Betty Gordon's active mind could not let this incident pass without
further investigation. Not alone was she interested in the beautiful black
mare and the girl in the neighborhood shop, but she wanted to know how
they came to have the same name.

Betty was a practical girl. Bob often said it was not easy to fool Betty.
She had just as strong an imagination as any other girl of her age and
loved to weave fancies in her own mind when it was otherwise idle. But she
knew her dreams were dreams, and her imaginings unreal.

It struck her that the name "Ida Bellethorne" was more suitable for a
horse than for a girl. Betty wondered all in a flash if the English girl
who had sold her the silk sweater in the neighborhood shop that morning
and who confessed that she had come from England practically alone had not
chosen this rather resounding name to use as an alias. Perhaps she had run
away from her friends and was hiding her identity behind the name of a
horse that she had heard of as being famous on the English turf.

This was not a very hard thing for Betty to imagine. And, in any case, her
interest was stirred greatly by the discovery she had made. She was about
to speak to the little, crooked man regarding the name when something
occurred to draw her attention from the point of her first surprise.

The mare, Ida Bellethorne, coughed. She coughed twice.

"Ah-ha, my lydy!" exclaimed the rubber, shaking his head and stepping away
from the door of the stall that the mare should not muzzle his clothing.
"That's a fine sound--wot?"

"Is it dust in her poor nose?" asked the interested Betty.

"'Tis worse nor dust. 'Tis wot they call 'ere the 'orse distemper, Miss.
You tyke it from 'Unches Slattery, the change in climate and crossin' the
hocean ain't done Ida Bellethorne a mite of good."

"Is that your name? 'Hunches Slattery'?" Betty asked curiously.

"That's wot they've called me this ten year back. You see, I was a jockey
when I was a lad, and a good one, too, if Hi do say it as shouldn't. But I
got throwed in a steeplechase race. When they let me out o' the 'orspital
I was like this--'unchbacked and crooked. I been 'Unchie ever since,
Miss."

"I am so sorry," breathed Betty Gordon softly.

But the crooked little rubber was more interested in Ida Bellethorne's
history than he was in his own misfortune, which was an old story.

"I was working in the Bellethorne stables when this mare was foaled. I was
always let work about her. She's a wonnerful pedigree, Miss--aw, yes,
wonnerful! And she was named for an 'igh and mighty lydy, sure enough."

"Named for a lady?" cried Betty. "Don't you mean for a girl?"

"Aw, not much! Such a lydy, Miss! Fine, an' tall, and wonnerful to look
at. They said she could sing like a hangel, that she could. Miss Ida
Bellethorne, she was. She ought've been a lord's daughter, she ought."

"What became of her?" asked the puzzled Betty.

"I don't know, Miss. I don't rightly know what became of all the family. I
kept close to the mare 'ere; the family didn't so much bother me. But
there was trouble and ruin and separation and death; and, after all,"
added the rubber in a lower tone, "for all I know, there was cheating and
swindling of the fatherless and orphan, too. But me, I kept close to this
lydy 'ere," and he fondled the mare's muzzle again.

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