"Oh, come now, Idy. I'm jes' bein' jokey. Besides, yer father smelled real good—of tobaccy and things. By the way," he asked, trying to appear casual, "you and Maureen had yer arms scratched against the typhoid?"
Grandma nodded.
"Good! I'm turribly glad."
"Why? Is the typhoid raging?"
"No, but I need ye at home, Idy, to perten me up for what I got to do."
"What's that?" Grandma asked in alarm.
"I got to see that all my dead ponies is taken off'n Chincoteague, and the dead ones on Assateague, too."
"Oh ... oh, how dreadful! But they say wimmenfolk can't go home now. Regardless."
"I know they say so." Grandpa's eyes crinkled with his secret. "But I say the Lord helps them as helps theirselves."
Grandma looked at him questioningly.