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.
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