"What did he want?" Maureen asked. "Does he want to make a picture of Misty's baby?"
"Stop interruptin'," Paul scolded. "Let Grandpa finish."
"Wa-al," Grandpa went on, "seems he'd been readin' 'bout the storm and how so many ponies had drowned. And he wants to do somethin' to help. Why, he's willin' to let theaters borry the picture of Misty free; that is, if the money tooken in goes to build up the lost herds."
Paul did a flying leap over his chair. "That's great, Grandpa. You don't have to get our okay on that."
"But I ain't told ye the kernel yet," Grandpa explained. "Y'see, the Mayor and the Council wants to start a disaster fund, and call it the Misty Disaster Fund." Grandpa stroked his chin and a far look crept into his eyes. "They want to cast Misty in the biggest role o' her life; even bigger'n bein' a star in a movie."
The children listened, speechless.
"Even bigger," Grandpa added, "than birthin' a colt."
"What could be bigger?" Maureen asked.
"They want Misty and her young'un to make a personal tour wherever her picture is playing, and go right spang up onto the stage. And part o' the ticket money'll be used to tidy up the island, but most of it to buy back the ponies. Mind ye, it'll all have to start right away. Mebbe in two weeks—that is, if there's to be a roundup this year."
Paul turned to his sister. "What do you say, Maureen?"