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Stormy, Misty's Foal

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<h2>Chapter 16</h2> <h3>WELCOME HOME, PROGGER</h3> 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?" Grandpa coughed. "They're all hankerin' fer home." "Wal, maybe it won't be long now. The Mayor got through to Washington, and they're sending four big 'copters tomorrow to work with you and Tom on liftin' the dead ponies." In a routine manner he went around to the back of the truck and flashed his light inside. "Any stowaways?" he asked jokingly. Grandpa matched the joking tone. "Yup, we got two." After an interminable silence the soldier's laughter filled the night. "Wal, I'll be a billy goat's whiskers if ye 'ain't got a nanny and her kid! How's the missus going to like that?" "I figger she's going to feel mighty close to 'em," Grandpa chuckled. "Why? How's that?" Suddenly Grandpa panicked. The sweat came cold on his forehead. He cut off the dashlight so his face would be in the dark. He couldn't speak. Paul came to the rescue. "We bought them for Misty's colt," he explained. "Sup-pli-ament-ary feeding, you know." The guard snapped off his light and tweaked Paul's ear. "Ye got a bright boy here, Mr. Beebe. G'night, folks. Ye can move on now." <hr class="tb" /> Home was clammy cold, and it had a stench of fish, and the bedroom rug with the roses was wet as a sponge. But it was Home! And Wait-a-Minute was there with a wild welcome, turning somersaults, then flying round and round like a whirling dervish. "This floor is like walkin' on mucilage," Grandma said, "but no matter how messy, there's jes' no place like Pony Ranch." Maureen sighed in agreement. Then she added soberly, "Even without the ponies." "You forget," Paul corrected, "we still have Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze, and the mares in the hay house." "And," Grandpa added with a crooked smile, "Wings' herd up to Tom's Place ... and with Misty expectin' ... and two goats and five cats, we got the beginnin's again." "Grandma!" Maureen cried. "What's happened to the back of your dress?" <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus41.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr class="chap" /> Grandma swished her skirt around. Her eyes widened. The whole back from the waist down was gone. "Why, whatever in the world!" she gasped. Paul and Maureen began to shriek in laughter. "The nanny goat!" "Like I said," Grandpa roared, "Missus Beebe'll allus feel mighty close to that nanny." Grandma flounced to the drawer where she kept her aprons. In pretended anger she took out two. "I'll just wear 'em both," she said. "One fore and one aft." There was much to be done before bedtime—the ponies in the hay house to be grained and watered, the nanny and her kid to be tended to, kindling to be brought in. And late as it was, Grandma got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the floor with vigor and strong naphtha soap. When she had almost finished, Maureen, muddy but radiant, sloshed into the back hall. "Guess what, Grandma!" "What now?" Grandma asked without looking up. Her lips were set in a thin line as she carefully pushed the basket of kittens back under the stove. "Now what you so tickled about?" "Feel in my pocket!" "Mice?" "No, Grandma. Guess again." "Probably some toady-frog or lizard." "No! No! Feel!" Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and poked a cautious fingertip into Maureen's pocket. She touched something smooth and curved. Smiling, she reached in and brought out two tiny brown-flecked eggs. "And there's two in my other pocket! I found 'em high and dry in Misty's manger." Grandpa and Paul came stomping into the back hall with armfuls of wood. "What's to eat?" Grandpa shouted. "I could swaller a whale." Grandma shook her head. "Bread's mouldy. Milk's sour. Only thing we got is four little bitty banty eggs." "Why, they're good," Maureen said in a hurt tone. "Course they are, honey." Grandma placed them on the table. "Paul, you still got your boots on. Run out to the smokehouse for some bacon. We'll have a tiny fried egg apiece and plenty o' crispy bacon. I'll put the skillet on and have it spittin' hot." When Paul had gone out, Grandma turned to Maureen and Grandpa. "Now you two wash up so's I can tell who's who. And for pity's sake, use that naphtha soap. If'n I had any sense at all, I'd go around this house with a clothespin twigged onto my nose." Grandpa's face broadened into a grin. "Humpf! A sea-captain's daughter complainin' 'bout a little bilge water." Suddenly Maureen shushed Grandpa and held up a warning finger. "Listen!" 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. <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus42.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr class="chap" /> 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!" <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ch.jpg" alt=""/></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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