"But _this_ is! A hull fleet of heelyacopters is comin' in from the
military this afternoon and we're all supposed to e-vac-u-ate over to
the main."
"E_vac_uate?" The word dropped like a time bomb. Then the explosion.
"Why?"
"What fer?"
"Mebbe okay for sick folk."
"Yeh. Or the homeless."
"Me, I got a second story."
"Me, too."
Everyone was talking at once. Everyone but Paul. He felt a hard lump in
his stomach. He would refuse to go ... unless they took Misty, too. The
storekeeper rapped on the counter for silence. "Fellers, let's hear Mr.
Beebe out."
Grandpa took a moment before he went on. "Tide's supposed to come up
higher," he announced. "Four feet higher."
"_Four feet!_ Why, that'll flood the whole island. Every house, every
store. Even the Fire House and the churches!"
"But that's only half the reason. Government says there could be an
epidemic of the typhoid, 'cause of all the dead chickens and fish
a-rottin' and mebbe"--Grandpa avoided Paul's eyes--"mebbe dead ponies."
The talk ceased. There was a sudden exodus. Men sloshing heavy-footed
out of the store, getting into their boats, going home to their
families, figuring out how to break the news.
"Come, Paul," Grandpa beckoned.
Paul followed along. "I bought us two cans of beans," he offered, not
knowing what to say.
"Ain't goin' to need 'em," Grandpa said gruffly; then he turned to look
at Paul. "They might taste real good, though, come to think of it."
_Chapter 9_