The next camp had an epidemic of measles, and in the next, ten
miles away, Miss Pinkerton vaccinated ten children.

By this time, the sun was high, and Jimmie began to think
anxiously of lunch. Miss Pinkerton steered into the orchard
country, where there was no sign of a store. He was relieved
when she nosed the car in under the shade of a magnolia tree and
said, "My clock says half-past eating time. What does yours
say?"

First Miss Pinkerton scrubbed her hands with water and
carbolic-smelling soap, and then she unwrapped a waxed-paper
package and spread napkins. For Jimmie she laid out a meat
sandwich, a jam sandwich, a big orange-colored persimmon, and a
cookie: not a dull store cookie, but a thick homemade one. The
churches of the neighborhood took turns baking them for the
Center. Jimmie ate every crumb.

In the next camp--asparagus--was a Mexican boy with a badly hurt
leg. He had gashed it when he was topping beets, and his people
had come on into cotton and into peas, without knowing how to
take care of the throbbing wound. When Miss Pinkerton first saw
it, she doubted whether leg or boy could be saved. It was still
bad, and the boy's mother stood and cried while Miss Pinkerton
dressed it, there under the strip-of-canvas house.

Miss Pinkerton saw Jimmie staring at that shelter and at the
helpless mother, and she whispered, "Aren't you lucky to have a
Grandma like yours, Jimmie-boy?"