A strained silence followed. The reporter looked around at the tight faces and put his notebook away.
Then the talk began again.
"I s'pose we oughtn't be thinking about wild ponies when people are bad off," a white-haired woman said.
"But what would it mean to Chincoteague," the reporter asked, "if Pony Penning Day had to be stopped for lack of ponies?"
Grandpa Beebe roused up. "Why, Chincoteague has took her place with the leading towns of the Eastern Shore. And mostly it's the wild pony roundup did it."
"That's what I say," a chorus of voices agreed.
"And if we had to stop it," Grandpa went on, "Chincoteague and Assateague both would be nothin' but specks on a map."
The reporter scribbled a few notes. Then he looked up. "Any of you hear about the man swept out to sea on a dining-room table while his wife accompanied him on the piano?"
His joke met with grim silence. It was too nearly true to be funny.
Grandma tugged at Grandpa's sleeve. "Clarence," she said, "we been hearing enough trouble. You tell the folks 'bout me and my violet plant."