Faint and far off, like something in a dream, came a sound like a dog's
barking. Then it faded away and stopped. They all stood still--waiting,
listening. For long seconds they heard nothing. Only the clock
hammering and the fire crackling in the stove.
But there! It came again. Louder this time. Nearer! A gruff, rusty
bark, then three short yaps, familiar, beloved.
In one stride Grandpa was at the door. He flung it wide and a flash of
golden fur bulleted into the room, skidding across the wet floor until
it reached Maureen.
"Skipper! Skipper!" she cried, hugging him passionately, wildly.
Grandpa and Grandma seemed to forget they were grown. They let Skipper
come leaping at them, let him put his front feet on their shoulders.
Who minded muddy paws? Who minded the icy-cold nose? Who minded the
wet tongue-swipes? And the tracked floor? Not even Grandma! Only
Wait-a-Minute hissed and spat at him.
Everyone was laughing and crying and talking all at once.
"Where you been, feller?"
"_I_ thought you'd been caught in a mushrat trap."
"_I_ thought you'd drowned, for sure."
"Why, ye're strong as a tiger."
"And yer coat's got a nice shine."
Paul came in then, a wide smile spread across his face. "He _should_ be
fat and shiny. He's been in the smokehouse eatin' his way through hams
and salt pork."
Grandma wiped her laughter-tears away. "He allus was crazy on smoked
meats," she said.
Maureen buried her nose in his ruff. "He's even got a smokehouse smell
to him," she said. "Remember, Paul? Last thing you did was to go get a
ham before we left on the helicopter."
Grandpa went to the sink and plunged his face into the wash basin,
making a sound like a seal. He came up bellowing: "Skipper's a progger!"
"What's that?" Maureen and Paul wanted to know.
Grandpa scruffed his beard, thinking. "It's a old, old Chincoteague
word, and it means ... wa-al, it jes' means someone as is smart enough
to grab a livin' when things is dire bad." And he cupped his hands
around his mouth and boomed, "Welcome home, ye old Progger!"
_Chapter 17_