I was approaching the rear cabins, which were silhouetted against the occasional headlight-glow from the highway, when I remembered that there were faucets spaced regularly in the field. I captured the nearest one with the flashlight beam, went up to it and turned it on. To my joy, water gushed out--the loveliest, most sparkling, most appreciated water in the world. The children were still asleep when I got back, and all seemed to be well. I went to the kitchen, to try the water at the sink. It spurted forth as gloriously as had the water from the faucet in the field. I looked out the kitchen window at the drowsy highway. The two service-station markets were closed, their lights out. There were no cars on the road at the moment; no lights except the rotating beacon at the airport. The Peacock's sign was out, Featherbrain's sign was out--but wait! There was still that light in Featherbrain's living room. Even as a horrible suspicion was crawling over me, Mr. Featherbrain's gaunt shoulders and head appeared in his window. A smile (probably ill at ease in such an unaccustomed place, I thought) was on his face. Mr. Featherbrain shoved up his window and thrust out his head. I opened our kitchen window so that I could hear what he was going to say. "I betcher durned old water wouldn't turn on!" he cackled. "Durned old Indians are allus turnin' it off, ain't they? Yuh oughta put the Indian sign on 'em, that'd fix 'em!" He chortled at his own wit. I was quivering with reaction, cold, and indignation. I realized that the "Indian" who had turned off our water tonight had been a tall, thin black-haired one, with a white stubble sprouting over a pink chin. But I couldn't think of an appropriate, biting enough retort. I didn't know exactly what I was going to say, but I leaned forward, waiting for the enraged words to come. They did. "I oughta bust evvy bone in yer head!" I snarled. One day the grapevine which twined around the various motels in town, linking them together, vibrated with the information that Mr. and Mrs. Garner had sold the Peacock. And for one hundred thousand dollars! "One hundred thousand. A tenth of a million," we said, rolling the words around on our tongues and tasting them critically. They tasted wonderful to Grant. "A hundred thousand," he mused. "Do you suppose, if we advertised once and really tried, we could get anything like that for this place?" "Well, this place is worth more than the Peacock," I said cautiously. "But we don't want to sell, do we?" "No--o--o, I guess not," he said; but the thoughtful expression didn't fully leave his eyes for several weeks.