“First time we go to Calgary, I’m going to buy some books for myself.”
“Where you going to get the money from?” demanded Sandy.
“I suppose Lady Bug won’t take the first prize at the Fall Horse Show—Oh, no, of course not.”
“Ye-eh, and he’ll make you put the prize money in the bank.”
“He won’t.”
“How won’t he?”
“Because,” said Hilda, with dignity, “I happen to be eighteen years old. That’s of age. He can’t. Of course, you——”
Sandy groaned. Hilda had on more than one occasion rubbed in to him the sore matter of his infernal youth and her own advantage of being of age—the extraordinary powers that descended upon her in consequence of those eighteen years.
“I betchu,” said Sandy, “that Dad’ll whirl us through the town, in and out for the Fair, and we won’t get anywhere near a book-store or the libry, and we won’t get a hopping chance to do any shopping. And if we do, he’ll go along to choose for us. Besides he’ll make you give him a list of the things you buy, and you won’t dare to put books on that list. He calls it systematic, scientific, mathmatical training of the mind. Oh, my God—frey!”
“I don’t care,” said Hilda bitterly. “I intend to buy what I choose with my own money. I’m going to get that book ‘The Sheik.’ I saw it in the movies, with Valentino, and it was just lovely. Dad was playing chess at the Palliser and left me in the car, and I got out and went to the movies, and I just loved it, and I’m going every time I get a chance. You just watch me.”