The Gatehouse Mystery

that how Dick is supposed to have acquired the shiner?"
    "That's what he told me," Trixie said. "But I didn't swallow it."
    "He was just kidding you," Regan said. "Dick is so scared of horses he wouldn't even put his foot in the tack room for fear a bridle might bite him."
    Honey appeared then, wearing dungarees and a polo shirt. "Come on, Trixie," she said impatiently. "Celia and the cook are having a fit. They want to get through so they can go to the early show. You'd better go eat, too, Regan," she went on. "They want to leave at seven fifteen."
    "I don't know why they can't walk into town once in a while," he said, scrubbing his hands at the tack-room sink.
    "It only takes twenty minutes to bike in," Trixie said. "If Dick never comes back, you'd better buy bikes for all the help, Regan." She and Honey hurried away and into the house.
    "What made you say that?" Honey asked. "Don't you think Dick is coming back?"
    "I'd like to know why he left in the first place," Trixie whispered. "As Regan pointed out, people with black eyes don't usually rush in to see big New York specialists."
    "I never thought of that," Honey admitted. "I got a black eye when I was hit by a tennis ball at camp one summer. Nobody paid any attention to me. And I was supposed to be delicate in those days."
    They joined the others in the dining room then. "Just put everything on the table, Celia," Miss Trask was saying. "Then you and Cook run up and dress for the movies. Helen and Marjorie can do the dishes tonight. I'll send them home in a taxi if Regan isn't back in time."
    "Thank you, Miss Trask," Celia said. "It isn't often that we can take in the early show." She hurried through the swinging door to the kitchen.
    "What I want to know," Mart said, hungrily eyeing the enormous platter of fried chicken, "is why the cook hasn't got a name like everyone else around here." He smiled at Miss Trask. "It's none of my business, but I'm curious about the private life of the 'feelthy' rich." Miss Trask smiled back at him. "There's a very simple explanation, Mart. So far, we have never been able to keep a cook long enough for all of us to remember her name."
    Honey giggled. "Mother calls them all Rachel, although we've had six different ones since Rachel quit. It was Daddy who hit on the idea of calling them all plain 'Cook.' They don't seem to mind, Mart."
    "You ought to hire a chef," he said. "Men are more stable than women."
    "Will you stop using big words?" Trixie exploded. "It's getting tiresome. Didn't you have anything to read at camp but a dictionary?"
    He glared at her. "What was big about that one? Two little syllables. And surely, a famous equestrienne like you must know the definition of stable when it's a noun."
    "I know both definitions," Trixie informed him. "But why couldn't you have simply said that men are more reliable than women? Not that they are."
    Mart appealed to Miss Trask. "How do you like that? She bawls me out for using big words, then suggests that I use one with four syllables instead of two?" Miss Trask chuckled. "Maybe Trixie thinks you should use more familiar words, Mart."
    "Nothing could be more familiar to her," Mart said with a grin, "than the word, stable. Honey just had to drag her out of one so we could eat."
    "Equestrienne," Trixie said suddenly. "Why couldn't you have simply said that I'm a famous horseback rider?"
    "Not that you are," Mart returned. "And if I had known that you were familiar with the word, I would never have applied it to you."
    "I give up," Trixie groaned. "Let's eat."
    After dinner, they cleared the table, and Brian and Mart insisted upon helping the maids with the dishes.
    "We're experts," Mart said, tying a ruffled apron on over his jeans. "Human dishwashing machines. That's the kind of camp we went to."
    Brian vigorously scrubbed the huge copper frying pan. "I can make people stop using that old saying about the pot calling the kettle black," he said. "If I could be everywhere at once, there would be no such thing as a black kettle."
    "Go along with you," plump Helen said, giggling. "Marjorie and I can do better without you big boys crowding around the sinks."
    "That we can," Marjorie agreed, snatching her apron off Mart. "But we thank you kindly, just the same." Mart bowed. "Say no more. We can take a hint. We know when were not wanted." He and Brian stalked out the back door, pretending to be very hurt.
    "Oh, dear," Marjorie said contritely to the girls. "Tell them were sorry, wont you?