The night was dark and broody with no moon or stars. Not a glimmer of
light anywhere. A curtain of fine rain closed in the deserted parking
lot.
With a great heave Grandpa hoisted Grandma up into the back of the
truck. "It's easier loading Misty," he panted.
Grandma was too excited to answer. Feeling her way in the dark, she
pushed the goats aside, took off her head scarf, and sat down on it.
Then she opened a clean handkerchief for Maureen. But Maureen ignored
it, lost in delight over the little white kid.
The motor made a roar in the night as the truck pulled out of the lot
and headed for the highway. Almost there, Grandpa turned down a gravel
lane, dimmed the lights, and parked. He and Paul jumped out and ran to
the back of the truck. Hastily they broke open the bale of hay, and
began shaking it over the stowaways.
Maureen sneezed.
"Hay's dusty," Paul said.
"Might of knowed it," Grandpa snorted. "No wonder Buck Jackson give it
away. Now whichever of ye sneezed, we can't have no more o' that. If
yer nose feels tickly, jes' clamp yer finger hard underneath it, and
'twon't happen."
Before Paul and Grandpa got back into the cab, they looked around
cautiously. No one was in sight.
"I feel like the smugglers we read about in Berlin," Paul said,
"sneakin' refugees to West Germany."
It was only a half-hour's ride to Chincoteague, but with no one singing
or laughing, it seemed more like half a day. In silence they rode past
Rabbit Gnaw Road and through Horntown and past Swan's Gut Road and
across the salt flats that led to the causeway.
Almost at the end of the causeway their headlights showed up a
temporary guardhouse. A soldier with a rifle came out and flagged them
down. He shone his flashlight into the cab of the truck. "Hi there, Mr.
Beebe," he grinned in recognition. "Hi, Paul. How's Misty?"
"She's still all right," Paul replied.
The guard flicked off his flashlight and leaned one arm on the lowered
window. He seemed hungry for talk. "Funny thing," he said, "about the
telephone calls comin' in from all over the countryside. Mostly they're
from children. It's not folks they're worried about. It's the ponies.
'Specially Misty. Yeah," he laughed, "_she's_ their prime concern."
"Mine, too!" Paul said.
Unmindful of the drizzle, the guard went on. "By the way, how's
everybody over at Wallops?"