One of them laughed, and indicated our sign. "Then why do you have your 'no vacancy' sign on?" she asked. "I'm beginning to wonder about that, myself," I replied. Mr. Hawkins and Miss Nestleburt drove in about seven-thirty. I was standing in the office doorway. "Not very busy tonight, are you?" Mr. Hawkins called, his car slowing down. I had the familiar, uncomfortable feeling that he was secretly laughing at me. "We're full already," I said, motioning unhappily toward our sign. They drove on back toward their own cabins. I stood thoughtfully in the doorway for a while. There had been something in that man's expression . . . I walked furiously toward the "no vacancy" sign, and put the cover back over the "no." It would be Mr. Hawkin's idea of a good joke, I knew, to disguise his voice and call up several times for reservations. I was positive now that it had been he who had made all those phone calls. Because of our late start, all the motels in our end of town filled up before we did. It wasn't until four-thirty the next morning that Grant could uncover the "no" again. CHAPTER SEVEN IN THE MIDDLE of September school started, and David, who was a little over five and a half years old, entered the first grade of the Banning grammar school. And with the start of school came the "summer slump" that our irritable neighbor, Mr. Featherbrain, had been forecasting. Business was terrible. The highway was almost deserted, and of the few cars that did appear, most of them plowed right on toward their destinations. The occasional customer who rang our bell professed to be shocked at our rates, and it was only by lowering our rates that we were able to rent any cabins at all. There were many nights during that period that only two or three of our cabins were occupied; and I remember one night when we had only one customer, a young man who slept in his single cabin in solitary splendor all night. Obviously, the income from the place wasn't enough to meet the payments and the expenses. We were beginning to think Grant had been premature in leaving General Motors, and to wish that he were still collecting his weekly check from them. Like a stone over our heads hung the realization that there was a possibility we might lose the motel--and all the money we had put into it. Jed didn't come every day for our laundry now; he came only once or twice a week. I asked him if the motels all over town were doing as badly as we were, or whether it was just us. "The motels that have kitchens are still doing all right," he said, smoothing his fingers over his nose as though trying to find a spot where there were no freckles. "One whole side of the Peacock, eight of its cabins, have kitchens, and I still get two big sacks of laundry every day from there."