Misty and Paul and David were first to peer inside. The two boys were suddenly friends, buyers, judging an odd assortment of goats.
Grandpa stuck his nose into the truck and sniffed noisily. "I jes' don't like 'em," he insisted. "They smell from here to Kingdom Come. To me, a polecat smells purtier."
But Paul was ecstatic. "They can't help it, Grandpa. And besides, Misty needs someone to play with, now that Skipper's gone."
"She'll have her colt," Grandpa reminded.
Paul was not listening. "I like that brown nanny with the little white kid."
"So do I," David agreed. "And if I was your Grandpa, I'd let you have the whole truckload," he offered generously.
"Who says I want to sell any?" Buck Jackson asked.
That did it. Grandpa was a born trader. "Buck," he said, "there's lots o' goats over to Chincoteague. Some nicer'n yours. Cy Eustace has a hull flock, and Ben Sykes has...."
"Not any more they don't. They're drowned."
Grandpa ignored the interruption. "But since my grandson has took a fancy to that brown one and her kid, what'll ye take for the pair?"