Grandpa winked at Grandma. His trick had worked. He had lifted the
children out of their worry. "Gosh all fish-hawks," he chuckled, "I
eenamost did. What was that little feller's name?"
"Why, Whiskers!" Maureen prompted.
"'Course," Grandpa said, scratching his own whiskers as he remembered.
"Well, that pup was a-ridin' bareback behind me, and when Misty r'ared,
he went skallyhootin' in the air. But you know what? He picked himself
up and jumped right back on, after the snake-killin' was done. And
Misty won a beautiful gold cup for bein' the purtiest and bravest pony
in the hull parade."
"And that was even afore she became famous in the movie," Paul added.
Grandpa stopped, groping in desperation for another story. In the short
moment of silence a gust of wind twanged the telephone wires and wailed
eerily under the eaves.
Maureen's face went white. "Oh, Grandpa!" she whimpered. "Is Misty's
baby going to die?"
"No, child. How often do I got to tell you I'm the oldest pony raiser
on this-here island, and if I know anything at all about ponies,
Misty'll hold off 'til the storm's over and the sun's shinin' bright as
a Christmas-tree ball."
Paul leaped from the couch. "Grandma!" he challenged. "Do _you_ believe
that?"
Grandma was putting away the last of the dishes, and did not reply. The
question was so simple, so probing. She wanted to tell the truth and
she wanted to calm the children. "As ye know," she said at last, "I
had ten head o' children, and it seemed like _they_ did the deciding
when was the time to appear. But from what yer Grandpa says, ponies is
smarter'n people. They kin hold off 'til things is more auspicious."
Grandpa brushed the talk aside. "I got another worriment asides Misty,"
he said. "She's safe enough on high ground and in a snug shed. But what
about all my ponies up to Deep Hole?" He jerked up from the couch. "I
got to call Tom Reed."
"Clarence," Grandma reproached, "Tom Reed's an early-to-bedder. Time we
bedded down, too. It's past nine."
"I don't keer if it's past midnight," he cried in a sudden burst. "I
_got_ to call him!" But he didn't go to the phone. He suddenly stood
still, his hands clenched into fists. "Somethin' I been meanin' to tell
ye," he said with a kind of urgency.
No one helped him with a question. Everyone was too bewildered.
"All I know in this world is ponies. Ponies is my life," he went on.
"And ever' Pony Penning I buy me some uncommon purty ones." Now the
words poured from him. "Some fellers salt their money in insurance and
such, but I been saltin' mine in ponies. And right now I got ninety
head. And they're up to Deep Hole in Tom Reed's woods. I _got_ to know
how they are!"
"Ninety head!" Grandma gasped. "I had no idea 'twas so many."
"Well, 'tis." Grandpa's voice was tight and strained. "If the ocean
swallers 'em, we're licked and done." He looked at the children. "And
there'll be no schoolin' for this second brood o' ours." He rubbed the
bristles in his ears, the worry in his face deepening. "One of the
ponies is Wings."
"Oh ... oh...." Maureen's lips trembled as if she had lost a friend.
"Not Wings!"
"Not Wings!" Paul repeated.
"Who's Wings?" Grandma demanded.
"Why, Grandma," Paul said, "he's the red stallion who stole Misty away
for two weeks last spring. Don't you remember? He's the father of
Misty's unborned colt."
Maureen went over to Grandpa and took his gnarled old hand into hers
and pressed it against her cheek. "Tonight I'm going to send up my best
prayer for Wings. And for all ninety head," she added quickly. "But,
Grandpa, we don't mind about school. Honest we don't."
"'Course not," Paul said. "We'll just raise more ponies from Misty."
_Chapter 6_