The doctor was about to say it wouldn't be necessary. Then he saw the troubled look on the boy's face. Better, he thought, to keep him busy instead of worrying. "It wouldn't hurt at all, Paul. Many breeding stables keep a goat for that very purpose. By the way," he turned now to Grandpa, "you must know Buck Jackson from Chincoteague."
Grandpa flinched. "Yup, I know him. Sells goat's milk."
"Well, he's delivering a flock of goats to Girdletree today, and I'm to give them a health certificate. If you'd like to buy a nanny, I'll ask Buck if he can spare one. But you'd have to keep her at Pony Ranch, because I'm short of space."
Grandpa shrugged helplessly. "Allus it's me against the world," he said, half joking, half in earnest. Then he stared down the highway in amazement.
A shining white truck was barreling along toward them. Now it was slowing, and in big black letters on its side Grandpa made out the words:
Buck Jackson Delivery—Goat's Milk.
With a screeching of tires the truck turned into the driveway and came to a stop. A big-shouldered man jumped down from the cab and opened the tailgate. "Hi, Paul and David," he called. "Hi, Doc. Hi, Mr. Beebe. Hi, Misty. Heavens-to-Betsy, I didn't expect a welcoming committee!"