Paul and Maureen were soon so busy with preparations for Misty's return that they forgot Grandpa. The phone might ring any minute, long distance, with big news from Pocomoke. And if it did, the made-over chicken coop had to be dry and snug and warm, and waiting.
The day was spent in a fever of activity. At first they tackled the heavy, sodden straw with enthusiasm. They were used to cleaning Misty's stall every morning before breakfast. It took only a few minutes—fifteen at most. But now clumps of seaweed made the bedding slithery as soup and heavy as lead. With fork and shovel they pitched and tossed for an hour. Each wheelbarrowful seemed heavier than the last, until finally it took both of them, one at each handle, to push it and dump the muck in the woods.
Skipper found an old pulpy potato and asked Paul and Maureen to play ball, but they were too busy and too tired.
At morning's end the floor of the shed was emptied of wet bedding, but what remained was a churned-up, slimy mass of mud. Maureen leaned against the wall, rubbing an arm across her face. "How are we ever going to get it dry?" she said, bursting into tears.
Paul felt defeated too, and his head and body ached. "What we need," he groaned, "is a thousand million blotters. But where?" Suddenly his face lighted in inspiration. "Sawdust!" he cried. "That's what we need!" He ran sloshing toward the road, calling back over his shoulder, "You wait, I'm going to see Mr. Hancock."
Mr. Hancock was a long-time friend. He was a wood-carver, and had given work to Paul and Maureen when they were earning money to buy Misty's mother. Often for fifty cents apiece they had swept his shop clean of sawdust and shavings.
By the time Maureen had finished her cry and wiped away her tears, Paul and Mr. Hancock were driving into the yard in his newly painted truck. She gaped in astonishment as she watched them unload bushel basket after bushel basket of sawdust at the door of the stall.