Grandma had canned milk and boiled water along, and with all the Beechams working together, they got the baby's bottles filled. Poor Sally couldn't understand the cold milk, but she was so hungry she finally drank it, staring reproachfully at her bottle.
Not till he had engine trouble did the driver halt. Fortunately the garage where he stopped had candy and pop for sale. Grandpa had his family choose each a chocolate bar and a bottle. He wanted to get more, for fear they would not stop for the noon meal, but in five minutes all the supplies were sold.
Rose-Ellen tried to make her chocolate almond bar last; she chewed every bite till it slid down her throat; and then, alas, she was so sick that it didn't stay down.
Grandpa and Daddy talked with others about making the driver give them rest and food; but there was nothing they could do: the padrone, back in Philadelphia, already had their money for the trip.
The children walked about while they waited. It was not cold, but the dampness chilled them. It was queer country, the highway running between swamps of black water, where gray trees stood veiled in gray moss. Gray cabins sat every-which-way in the clearing, heavy shutters swinging at their glassless windows.
A pale, thin girl talked to Rose-Ellen. She was Polish, and her name was Rose, too. When Rose-Ellen asked her if she had ever heard of such a dreadful trip, she shrugged and said she was used to going without sleep.
Last year, in asparagus, she and her parents and two brothers cared for twenty-two acres, and when it grew hot "dat grass, oooop she go and we work all night for git ahead of her." Asparagus, even Rose-Ellen knew could grow past using in a day.
The Polish Rose said that they got up at four in the morning and were in the fields at half-past; and sometimes worked till near midnight.
"Mornings," she said, "I think I die, so bad I want the sleep. And then the boss, he no give us half our wages. Now most a year it has been."
Curiously Rose-Ellen asked her about school.