It seemed that everyone had been bitten by an invisible bug which continued to bite and would permit no rest. Hands clasped behind his back, the man who owned the race horse paced restlessly back and forth, almost as though someone had measured off a space and ordered him to walk in it forever. His cheeks were red and his eyes bright, almost feverish. He looked at the two children as they passed without even seeing them.
The family that hoped to "make out in Oklyhomy" were all busy, the man oiling harness, the woman and her oldest daughter piling boxes in the wagon, and the three smaller children getting in the way. The two lively young men were having a wrestling match. The old man was looking earnestly at his sorry-looking mule and saying over and over again, "Now, mule, we got to go. We got to go, mule."
"Where you got to go?" somebody called.
"Oklahoma," the old man said. "Now, mule, we got to go. We got to go, mule."
A reckless rider on a plunging horse rode through the camp. His horse, jumping suddenly sidewise, knocked over one of two water pails that were standing beside a tent. The owner of the pails, a fat man dressed only in red underwear, ran out of the tent and shook his fist.
"Come back and do that again!" he yelled.
"All right! I will!"
The reckless rider turned his horse, came back, knocked over the other water pail, then, laughing, rode off. The fat man raised his arms heavenwards and roared at the top of his voice. Then, shrugging, he picked up his pails and, still wearing only red underwear, went to get more water.
A bevy of youngsters were playing tag near by. "Join the game!" a freckle-faced boy about Alec's age called.