"We had a big collie right up until time to leave," Paul answered.
"And we got a pony in our kitchen back in Chincoteague," Maureen spoke
up.
The woman seemed suddenly to recognize Paul. "Why, you're the boy who
caught a wild mare over to Assateague and set her free again."
The children nodded.
"And the pony in your kitchen--is it Misty?"
"Yes, ma'am, it's Misty, all right."
The woman was excited. "Why, they been talking about her on the radio.
Children who saw her movie are swamping the stations with calls,
wanting to know if she drowned."
"She's safe," Paul said. "That is, she...." He stopped. He could feel
his heart throbbing in his ears. In a split-second dream he was back on
Chincoteague with the ocean rolling and pounding in under the house,
and with a horrible hissing sound it was breaking the house apart, and
in the same instant Misty was swept out to sea until her mane became
one with the spume. Paul shook off the dream as the woman called three
young children to her.
"You youngsters," she said, "will be glad to know that Misty's safe in
the Beebes' kitchen. And this is Paul and Maureen Beebe."
Wide-eyed, the children pelted them with questions. In the pain of
uncertainty Paul answered what he could. Then he turned away, pulling
Maureen along back to their bench. Grandma put an arm around each of
them. "More folks are coming in," she said, trying to put their world
back together. "Now mebbe we'll get some heart'ning news."
In a daze Paul and Maureen listened to the bits and pieces of talk.
"Old Dick Evans died trying to save his fish nets. Got plumb exhausted.
His heart give out."
"When _we_ flew over, I saw how the waves had chawed big chunks out of
the causeway, and six autos were left, half-buried in sand. Even one of
the DUKWs was stuck."
"When we flew over, the sea had swallowed up the causeway. Why,
Chincoteague is cut off from the main like a boat without an anchor."
"I heerd that a lady over to Chincoteague had a husband and two
children that couldn't swim. She swum two blocks in that icy water for
help. Nearly died afore one of them DUKWs fished her up and drug her,
sobbin' and drippin', to the Fire House. Then they goes back for her
husband and kids." The speaker paused. "But guess what?"
"What?" someone asked.
"Why, between whiles a whirlybird airlifted 'em off'n the roof and
they thought _she'd_ drownt and she thought _they'd_ drownt. And later
they all got together at the Fire House."
"See, children," Grandma whispered, "some of the news is right good."
A young reporter carrying his typewriter joined the gathering. "I
heard," he said, "that a hundred and fifty wild ponies were washed
right off Assateague."
"O-h!" The news was met by a shocked chorus.
"Before I write that for my paper, I'd like you folks to give me your
comments." He took out a notebook and pencil.
A strained silence followed. The reporter looked around at the tight
faces and put his notebook away.
Then the talk began again.
"I s'pose we oughtn't be thinking about wild ponies when people are bad
off," a white-haired woman said.
"But what would it mean to Chincoteague," the reporter asked, "if Pony
Penning Day had to be stopped for lack of ponies?"
Grandpa Beebe roused up. "Why, Chincoteague has took her place with
the leading towns of the Eastern Shore. And mostly it's the wild pony
roundup did it."
"That's what I say," a chorus of voices agreed.
"And if we had to stop it," Grandpa went on, "Chincoteague and
Assateague both would be nothin' but specks on a map."
The reporter scribbled a few notes. Then he looked up. "Any of you hear
about the man swept out to sea on a dining-room table while his wife
accompanied him on the piano?"
His joke met with grim silence. It was too nearly true to be funny.
Grandma tugged at Grandpa's sleeve. "Clarence," she said, "we been
hearing enough trouble. You tell the folks 'bout me and my violet
plant."
Grandpa forced himself to smile. For the moment he put the worry aside.
"Folks," he said, "my Idy here commenced waterin' her plants afore we
took off. She give 'em a right smart nip. And then, split my windpipe
if she didn't wet down the artyficial violet the kids give her for
Christmas. She even saucered the pot to catch the come-through water,
and dumped that in too!"
A young woman laughed nervously. "I can match that story," she offered.
"The sea kept coming in under our door and kept pushing up my little
rug, and I took my broom and tried to whisk it away, and then I got my
dustpan and tried to sweep the water into it! A broom and a pan against
the sea!"
A man, looking sheepish, said, "I tried the same stunt in my barn, only
I used a shovel and a wheelbarrow!"
The talk petered out. Then a minister got up and prayed for a good
night's sleep and for the tide to ebb and the wind to die. Gradually
the people went back to their benches. One by one the lights were
switched off, except for the night lights over the doors.
As the Beebes settled down in their corner, Grandpa whispered, "Close
your eye-winkers, chirren, turn off your worries, and snore away the
night." Then he got down on the floor, wrapped himself up like an
Indian, and began breathing in deep, rhythmic snores.
"What better lullaby?" Grandma sighed.
And Paul and Maureen caught his calm, and they too slept.
_Chapter 12_