It was unanimous! The Town Council, the Firemen, the Ladies' Auxiliary, Preacher Britton, and of course the Postmaster—everyone approved the name Stormy. Stormy, they said, was the one good thing to come out of the storm.
News of the Misty Disaster Fund swept the Eastern Shore. Theater owners all up and down the coast wanted to present the famous ponies on their mission of mercy.
Now that Paul and Maureen had agreed to a tryout, they entered into the project with enthusiasm. "It's got to be good!" Paul kept repeating. "If children are going to spend their allowance money, they're entitled to a real show."
"Why, Paul, the movie of Misty is a beautiful show," Maureen said in a hurt tone.
"Sure it is. But lots of folks have seen it. What they want now is to see Misty herself and little Stormy. Even the Mayor says so."
The performance in the big city of Richmond was scheduled for a week from Saturday. That left only ten days to do a million things, big and little.
They scrubbed Misty's stepstool and gave it a fresh coat of paint, bright blue. And the moment it was dry, and a dozen times each day, they made her step up on it and shake hands vigorously, just for practice. Often while she shook hands, Stormy nursed her.
"Makes Misty seem ambi-dextrous," Paul said.
Grandpa chortled. "Reckon you could call it that. I swan, the way that gal shakes hands on the slightest excuse it looks like she's campaignin'."
"She is!" Maureen said. "She's campaigning for the Misty Disaster Fund."