I squeezed some milk on to my fingers, and then, I know, his smile grew broader. It was as though he'd seen that old trick somewhere, and had egged me on to it. But where had this soldier watched milking before?
"That's coming better now, Joan," approved Mrs. Price. "That's because you wetted your fingers. Look—dip your fingers in the milk, my mother taught me. Easier for the cow and easier for you."
I said:
"Yes, I remember now seeing the man dip his fingers in the pail at Dad's farm. I'd forgotten. Lots of things will come back to me presently."
Here, above me, the man's shadow moved quickly on the wall. It was as though Captain Holiday, still planted there behind me, were listening as intently as he was watching me.
Rather confused, I went on to show that I did know something about this job.
"I saw on the efficiency test papers," said I, "that the examiners from headquarters don't like the wet milking. It said preference would be given to dry milking."
"Cleaner, for some, p'raps," said Mrs. Price. "Fifteen marks, too; but I thought you were no town girl! Doesn't it show now, Captain Holiday?"
A non-committal "Um" came from Captain Holiday as his tall shadow slid away from the wall and out of the farmyard just as Elizabeth and Vic came in.
"Again!" was my chum's laconic comment when we were walking home.