WAIT-A-MINUTE COULDN'T
By six o'clock the next morning the men had been outside summing up the weather, and had come in to report: "Wind's slacked up a bit. Still blowin' nor'nor'east. Sky's cloudy, but no rain."
By seven o'clock a new parade of church ladies marched in with big pans of sweet rolls and pots of steaming hot coffee.
At eight o'clock a Coast Guard officer, square-jawed and handsome, strode into the room. He was a big man, and when he pounded for order, the few left-over rolls jumped on their plates. "Folks," he boomed out, "I've good news for you." He waited a moment until his scattered audience finished folding their blankets and quieted down. "You'll be pleased to know," he announced, "that the Red Cross is coming in, bringing canned goods and a steam table so you can have nice hot meals."
One of the church ladies walked out in a huff.
"And they are bringing cots and pillows, so there'll be no more sleeping on the floor."
A shocked silence followed. Who wanted to stay another night? Even on a cot? Everyone wanted to get home.
"Bear in mind, friends," the brisk voice went on, "this is not a one-day evacuation. More refugees will be coming in."
"Where'll we put 'em?" several voices demanded.
The officer ignored the interruption. "By order of the State Department of Health, no women or children can return to Chincoteague until all the dead chickens are removed and the other carcasses, too—goats, dogs, pigs, and of course dead ponies. There could be a plague—typhoid or worse."