"If I get my hands on that boy he'll rue the day he ever
set foot off this farm. He'll go back to the poorhouse and there
he'll stay till he's of age."
Betty sat up, pushing the tumbled hair from her hot forehead.
"I'm glad Bob ran away!" she cried recklessly. "He's gone where you
won't catch him, either. You never treated him fairly, and you know
it."
Peabody banged the kitchen door by way of relieving his feelings,
but the latch did not fasten so that he heard Betty's next sentence
addressed to his wife.
"I'm only waiting for a letter from Uncle Dick," confided Betty.
"Then I'm going to Washington. Things will never be any different
here, Mrs. Peabody; you've said so yourself. I wish Uncle Dick would
hurry and write. It's been a good while since I heard." And there was
a catch in the girl's voice.
The man slouched off the porch, a peculiar smile on his lean, shrewd
face. One hand, thrust into his ragged coat pocket, rested on a
letter there. As he felt it beneath his fingers, his crafty eyes
brightened with a gleam of mockery.
Mrs. Peabody may have been curious about Bob's departure, but she
asked no questions, somewhat to Betty's surprise.
"I'm glad she doesn't ask me," thought Betty, helping mechanically
in the preparations for dinner which were more elaborate than usual
because of the presence of the three balers.
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