“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.