"And you really think we're humans?" Grandma demanded, her cheeks as red as Sally's. "If you do, you're the first since we struck this place. You'll have to excuse me," she apologized, as the children stared at her with astonished eyes. "Seems like we've lost our manners along with everything else." "I don't wonder. I don't wonder a bit. Our preacher telephoned this morning that there was a heap of suffering here in the camp, or like enough we'd not have ought of it, and us church folks, too. Now I got my Ford out on the road; you tote the baby and we'll take her to my doctor." Mrs. King's doctor gave Sally medicine and told Grandma about feeding her orange juice and chopped vegetables and eggs as well as milk. Grandma sighed as she wondered how she would get these good things for the sick baby. However, Sally did seem to be somewhat better when they returned. Mrs. King and Grandma were talking over how to get supplies when the men came back to the tent. "Laid off," said Grandpa wearily, not seeing the caller. "Storm's wrecked the crop so bad he's laying off the newest hired. Says it's like to ruin him." Grandma sat still with the baby whining on her lap. "My land of love," she said, "what will we do now?" 5 CISSY FROM THE ONION MARSHES "Well, I should think you'd be glad to get clear of this," cried their visitor. "Florida camps ain't all so bad." "We've no money to move, ma'am," Grandpa said bluntly. "It took near all we'd earned to get here, and now no job!" "This Italian next door says they're advertising for, cotton pickers in Texas," Daddy said, cradling Sally in one arm while he held her little clawlike hand in his, feeling its fever. "We haven't got wings, to fly there," Grandma objected. Mrs. King looked thoughtfully around the wretched shelter. A few clothes hung from corner posts; a few tin dishes were piled in a box cupboard. The children were clean as children could be in such a place. But the visitor's glance lingered longest on the clock. "Your clock and mine are like as two peas," she observed. "Forty years ago I got mine, on my wedding day." "Mine was a wedding present, too. And my feather beds that I had to let go at fifty cents apiece. . . ." Grandma quavered. "These are queer times." Mrs. King shook her head. "I do wish I had the means to lend a hand like a real neighbor. There's this, though--my mister took in a big old auto on a debt, and he'll leave you have it for what the debt was--fifteen dollars, seems like." "You reckon he will?" Grandpa demanded. "He better!" said Mrs. King. "Even fifteen dollars won't leave us scarcely enough to eat on," Grandpa muttered. "But we've got to get to a place where there's work," Daddy reminded him. They went to see the car, and found it a big, strong old Reo, with fairly good tires. So they bought it.