No mechanical apparatus was employed at Whitewater Farms.
Odell, finished with the first cow, carried the foaming pail to the steelyards, weighed it, noted the result on the bulletin with a pencil that dangled there, and stepped aside to make room for Ed Lister, who came up with a brimming pail.
There was little conversation at milking hour, scarcely a word spoken except in admonition or reassurance to some restless cow—no sounds in the barn save the herd-bull’s deep rumble of well-being, a gusty twitter of swallows from the eaves, the mellow noises of feeding cattle, clank and creak of stanchion, gush and splash of water as some thirsty cow buried her pink nose in the patent fonts.
The still air grew fragrant with the scent of milk and clover-hay.
One or two grey cats came in, hopefully, and sat on the ladder-stairs, purring, observant, receptive.
The cows on test were in the western extension, all becoming a trifle restless now that their hour was again approaching. And presently two of Odell’s sons, Si and Willis, came in, scrubbed and clothed in white, prepared to continue the exhaustive record already well initiated.
“Eris home yet?” asked Odell over his shoulder.
Si shook his head and picked up a pail.
“Well, where’n the dang-dinged town is she?” growled Odell. “If she’s staying som’mers to supper, why can’t she send word?”
Willis said: “Buddy went down street to look for her. Mommy sent him.”