sleepy and sickish to care. Grandma's mouth was a thin line of
pain and the baby wailed until people looked around crossly,
though there were other crying babies.

The truck reached its destination late on the second evening and
piled out its passengers at a grapefruit camp. Rose-Ellen had
been picturing a village of huts like those at the bogs, or
bright-papered shacks like the oystershuckers'. Though the
featherbeds were gone, it would be delicious to lie on the floor,
uncrowded, and sheltered from the night.

But no such shelter awaited them. Instead, they were pointed to
a sort of hobo camp with lights glimmering through torn canvas.
A heavy odor scented the darkness.

Grandpa said, "They can't expect decent folks . . . !"

Grandma said, "We've got to stretch out somewheres. Even under a
tree. This baby. . . ."

Sally was crying a miserable little cry, and an Italian woman who
reminded Rose-Ellen of Mrs. Albi peered out of a patched tent and
said, "Iss a _bambina_! Oooh, the little so-white _bambina_! Look
you here, quick! The people next door have leave these tent. You
move in before some other bodies."

"These tent" was a top and three walls of dirty canvas. "If
you'd told me a Beecham would lay down in a filthy place like
this. . . ." Grandma declared. Rose-Ellen did not hear the end of
the sentence. She was asleep on the earth floor.