The officer turned inquiringly to the old man.
"Fact is," Grandpa said proudly, "when it comes to handlin' livestock he's worth ten men."
"That settles it," the officer smiled. "We've completed our first load."
When the helicopter set down on Chincoteague right beside the Fire House, the Mayor was waiting for them, standing in the cold and the wet, slapping his hands together for warmth. He poked his head inside the cabin, quickly studied the occupants, then clipped out his orders: "Split into three bunches, men. Beebe, you and Paul go up to Deep Hole to check on the dead ponies and mark their location for removal by airlift. Charlie and Jack, you arrange for crews to pile up the dead chickens at convenient loading points. We'll need the rest of you to work on the causeway so's we can truck the chickens across. Thank you, men, for volunteering."
Three DUKWs were parked alongside the helicopter waiting to take each group to its base of operation. The driver of the first one beckoned Grandpa and Paul aboard with a welcoming smile. "You men are lucky," he said, "your house is okay; at least it was last time I was down there."
"Is ... uh...." Paul stopped, embarrassed. The Coast Guardsman had just called him a man, and now he was frightened to ask a question, and more frightened not to ask.
"What you lookin' so scairt about?" Grandpa wanted to know.
"I want to ask him a question," Paul said miserably.
"Go ahead!" the driver encouraged as he steered through the debris-clogged street. "Go ahead."
Holding his breath, Paul blurted, "Is Misty all right? Has she had her colt?"