Grandpa began pacing, thinking out loud. "If only we had the ponies! If only the Town Council could buy back some of the colts that was auctioned off last year and the year afore that."
He quickened his pace. "Why, we could load 'em onto a big old barge, and chug 'em acrost the channel to Assateague, and they'd go wild again jes' like they'd never left." Now he spoke out with great conviction. "Why, then we could put up one o' the greatest Pony Pennings in Chincoteague history."
Grandpa ran out of breath. He gulped for more. "But all that'd take a heap o' money," he sighed.
"Maybe," Maureen said excitedly, "maybe Paul and me could earn a lot of money like we did to buy Misty's mother. We could rake clams or help people clean up their houses."
Paul looked pityingly at his sister. "When you going to grow up, Maureen? Why, it took us three whole months to earn enough to buy just one mare and her colt. Besides, folks here lost most everything in the flood. They can't afford to hire us."
"Paul's right, honey."
"But, Grandpa," Paul asked, "even if we had the money, would people sell back their ponies?"
"Likely some'd be right anxious to help," Grandpa replied, "and some'd sell fer other reasons. A lucky thing me and the Fire Company got a record o' each sale, and if only half them people say yes, that'd give us the start we need."
Grandpa suddenly remembered that his feet hurt. He collapsed into the nearest chair and began unlacing his Sunday shoes. "Can't abide 'em!" he grumbled. "I jes' stormed outen that meetin' afore it was done—half 'cause my hackles was up, but half 'cause my shoes squinched me."