The Mystery of the Millionaire

how much her friend had changed. Even the neat blouse and clean but faded blue jeans Honey wore were far more casual than the jodhpurs she’d worn for riding when she first moved to Sleepyside.
    Leaning over in the saddle, Trixie gave Honey an awkward hug. “I’m sorry I’m such a grouch. Hot weather always does that to me. I feel even grouchier when I see that the heat doesn’t bother you at all, but that isn’t fair.”
    “It isn’t fair, but I know exactly how you feel. In the winter, when the wind is howling and the snow is blowing, you put on a light jacket and walk clear over to my house and then want to go skating. All I want to do is bundle up and sit in front of the fireplace. I’m afraid I feel pretty grouchy then.”
    “I never knew it,” Trixie said in surprise. “You hide your grouchiness so much better than I do. You mean you hate the cold as much as I hate the heat?”
    “Probably,” Honey said. “Although I don’t know how we’d measure it.” She grinned teasingly. “Maybe we could have Brian invent a ‘hate-meter.’ ”
    Trixie picked up the thought immediately and began to expand on it. “What a great idea! Only it would be called a ‘hate detector.’ You know, like a lie detector. We’d put people in a chair and strap all those wires to their hands and then ask them questions: ‘Do you hate hot weather? Do you hate cold weather?’ And a needle would move up or down to show how much they hated it.
    “Then there would be some—oh, what do you call them?” Trixie closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose in an effort to remember. “Oh, yes— control questions. We’d ask about things that everybody loves or hates, so we’d have something to measure against. ‘Do you hate ice cream?’ Nobody could say yes to that. Or ‘Do you hate baby-sitting?’ Everybody would say yes to that one.”
    Honey was laughing so hard at Trixie’s wild imagination that she had to grasp the saddle horn to keep from sliding off Strawberry’s back. “Oh, Trixie,” she gasped, “that sounds like a wonderful invention. But you’d have to work harder on your control questions, I’m afraid. After all, I don’t hate baby-sitting a bit.”
    Trixie snapped her fingers in mock frustration. “Foiled again,” she said. “You do enjoy taking care of Bobby, because you don’t have to do it day in and day out for hours—and hours—and hours.” Trixie dragged the words out in a monotonous drone that made Honey start laughing again.
    “I don’t think baby-sitting would register as high on your hate-detector test as you’d like to pretend,” she observed. “Bobby’s a little cutie, and you know it.”
    Trixie shrugged. “I do know it. It really isn’t an awful job at all, especially since Moms lets me out of it about half the time. So I’ll have to think of another control question. How about ‘Do you hate a cold, wet can of soda pop on a scorching-hot day?’ ”
    “I think that’s a terrible control question,” Honey said, “but I think it’s a wonderful idea. Let’s ride over to Mr. Lytell’s store.”
    “Why, Honey, what a great suggestion! I never would have thought of it myself,” Trixie said, with exaggerated innocence.
    “I think you’ve been thinking of it since you reined Lady in, way back there. At least, I notice that’s the direction the horses have been taking. You must really want that cold drink, if you’re willing to go to Mr. Lytell’s for it. After all, I think he must register pretty high on your hate-detector test.”
    Trixie shook her head, making her sandy curls bounce. “It’s not my test that matters. It’s his. I think if Mr. Lytell took a hate-detector test, ‘Trixie Belden’ would register about the same as ‘mosquitoes,’ ‘quicksand,’ and ‘flat tires.’ ”
    “Poor Trixie,” Honey said sympathetically. “Mr. Lytell does seem awfully critical where you’re concerned, but you know he really likes you.”
    “He likes Miss Trask a lot better,” Trixie reminded her. “He never criticizes her.”
    “That’s true,” Honey agreed. “Miss Trask is exactly the sort of person Mr. Lytell likes best. She’s calm and sensible and quiet.”
    “And I’m excitable and scatterbrained and noisy,” Trixie admitted.
    “No, you aren’t,” said Honey, who was always quick to defend her best friend—even to herself. “That is, you are excitable, and sometimes your excitement makes you noisy, but I don’t think you’re the least bit