Maureen sat up very straight. "You have me and Paul," she said solemnly.
"That's 'zactly what I mean! We got us two stout-built grandchildren, and they're not afeard to buckle down and pull alongside us."
Paul stood up. He felt strong and proud, as if he could tackle anything. "I'm going with you, Grandpa."
"How'd ye know I'm going anywheres? But I am! I got to get over to town. Human folk may need rescuin'."
Grandma's lips pressed into a thin line. "Ye can't go! There's no road! Water'd come clean up over your boots."
"There, there, Idy. The wind's let up some, and Billy Blaze and Watch Eyes is used to plowin' through water. If they can't walk, they kin swim. Boy, ye ready?"
Paul shot a look of triumph at Maureen and immediately felt ashamed.
"Clarence!" Grandma pleaded, trying to keep her menfolk at home. "I won't have you going off and over-straining yourself. You, and me too," she added quickly, "is getting agey. Besides, soon the telephone will come on, and the electric, and we can all set cozy-like and listen to the news on the radio."
"If everyone was to stay home, Idy, a lot of folk might go floatin' out to sea like yer baby chicks." He clapped his hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to tell her. But now it was too late.
Grandma's eyes filled. She covered her face with her hands. "Pore little chickabiddies," she whispered, "with their soft yellow fuzz and their beady birdy eyes." She wiped her tears with her apron. "All right, go 'long," she said. "I just hope your herd up to Tom's pasture ain't met the same fate."