They led Misty out of the house and into the old truck. They stowed a bundle of hay in its accustomed place, just as if she were going off to a school or a library story hour.
"You wait, Misty, we'll be right back," Grandpa said. "Paul and me got to give the kitchen a quick lick."
"Oh, do we have to?" Paul was all impatience.
"Yes, son. Some way I got a hunch yer Grandma's coming home right soon."
Back in the kitchen Paul and Grandpa mucked out the old straw, and gave the floor a hasty cleaning.
"Gives you a new regard for wimmenfolk, don't it, Paul?" Grandpa asked, dipping the broom into a pail of suds.
"Why?"
"Well, how'd you like to get down on yer knees and scrub suds and dirt together and try to get a slick surface?"
"I'd ruther muck out stalls."
"That's what I mean. Misty is what I'd call a tidy pony. She uses one corner and keeps ever'thing mounded up real neat. But even so—!"