“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.