"This Golden Drip is a little late about coming. It's as stubborn as old Doc Wharton used to be."
"Was he stubborn?" Janet asked, keeping the saucer level.
"He wasn't much of anything else. He was so stubborn that when he drowned in the Comanche he floated upstream."
"Really?"
"Wasn't any doubt about it. Some people said that his foot must 'a' been caught in the stirrup and the horse dragged him up that far from where he went in. But I always claimed it was just natural."
As the molasses had not yet responded, he up-ended the jug still farther and waited for results.
"I suppose," he queried, "that Steve has told you about things down home. And all about his mother?"
"He told me that he lost his mother last winter."
"Ye-e-e-es," he said reflectively, drawing the word out as a thick sluggish stream began to pile up in the saucer.
When she exclaimed "enough," he lowered the bottom of the jug and kept the mouth over the saucer as the molasses continued to run from it.