stopped paying interest on the gold and started charging storage costs.
Some people, convinced by William Jennings Bryan and his Cross of Gold, predicted that leaving the gold standard would be the salvation of the country. Other people, usually rich Easterners, predicted that leaving the gold standard would lead to the violent end of Western civilization—as they put it. George, being a follower of the silver-tongued Nebraskan, believed that his silver standard was already half a century overdue. But whether Roosevelt followed the lead of Bryan or not, there was one thing about money that George was dead sure of when he woke up that morning. Today was the day he had to go to his father-in-law and ask him for two hundred and fifty dollars.
All the while he milked he became more and more furious with his wife’s preaching father—hypocritical old man! He must have kept
plenty
of it in Jamestown all the time or he wouldn’t have it to spare now. No wonder the old man didn’t want inflation—not with the amount of cold cash
he
had stashed away. When he got back up to the house and found that Rachel had not quite got the separator together, he erupted.
“For Pete’s sake! I go down and pitch hay to six cows and milk every last one of them by myself and
you
can’t even get the damned separator together!”
“Maybe that’s because
you
forgot to run the rinse water through it last night, and when I started to put it together this morning, it was so sour I had to wash every single disk!”
She clamped the two spouts over the thirty-two disks, banged the last fitting on top of them, snatched up a large aluminum float, and let it drop into place with a clang that stung his ears.
“Rachel!” he shouted. “What on earth
ails
you!”
He began turning the handle with a retaliatory spleen. A bell on the handle rang with every revolution until the speed was up. “
Ting! Ting! Ting!”
it went, as the thirty-two disks spun faster and faster, building up the force that would separate the milk, particle by particle. When the bell stopped ringing he turned the valve and let the milk flow from the bowl on to the float. The whining groan of the heavy parts whirling in the machine was the only sound in the kitchen.
After he had run all the milk through, he poured the warm cream into one of the cans on the porch and wrote out two tags on the kitchen table.
“I’m going over town to take in the cream and I’ll take Lucy,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”
“Why do
you
have to take it? Isn’t Otto going to pick it up today?”
“I want to go in and weigh it myself on old man Adams’s scales,” George said. He was being half honest. He
did
want to check on the weights he’d been getting from the creamery in Jamestown. But mostly this was the best excuse he could think of for getting over to see Will during the daytime when he could try to catch him alone outside. “Besides,” he added, “I don’t trust Wilkes as far as I could throw his Percheron by the tail. If he thought he could get away with it, I wouldn’t put it past him to bring along an empty can of his own and just fill it up with a few dips out of all the other cans he hauls.”
“Oh, George,” Rachel said. “You
mustn’t
talk that way about a
neighbor!”
She glanced at Lucy, waiting behind George with her lunch pail. Lucy looked back with that assured gaze that said as clearly as a seven-year-old could, “Do you think I don’t know all about the Wilkeses?”
“Phooey!” George said. He couldn’t stand her sob-sister delicacy—just like her old man’s. “
You
know the scoundrel as well as
I
do!” He started out the door. “Is there anything you need? You never answered my question.”
“No … not really. But if you have time I wish you’d stop by the folks’ and pick up that old brooder Dad said we could have. You’re going to have to fix it before we can use it and you might as well get it so you can work on it this
Some people, convinced by William Jennings Bryan and his Cross of Gold, predicted that leaving the gold standard would be the salvation of the country. Other people, usually rich Easterners, predicted that leaving the gold standard would lead to the violent end of Western civilization—as they put it. George, being a follower of the silver-tongued Nebraskan, believed that his silver standard was already half a century overdue. But whether Roosevelt followed the lead of Bryan or not, there was one thing about money that George was dead sure of when he woke up that morning. Today was the day he had to go to his father-in-law and ask him for two hundred and fifty dollars.
All the while he milked he became more and more furious with his wife’s preaching father—hypocritical old man! He must have kept
plenty
of it in Jamestown all the time or he wouldn’t have it to spare now. No wonder the old man didn’t want inflation—not with the amount of cold cash
he
had stashed away. When he got back up to the house and found that Rachel had not quite got the separator together, he erupted.
“For Pete’s sake! I go down and pitch hay to six cows and milk every last one of them by myself and
you
can’t even get the damned separator together!”
“Maybe that’s because
you
forgot to run the rinse water through it last night, and when I started to put it together this morning, it was so sour I had to wash every single disk!”
She clamped the two spouts over the thirty-two disks, banged the last fitting on top of them, snatched up a large aluminum float, and let it drop into place with a clang that stung his ears.
“Rachel!” he shouted. “What on earth
ails
you!”
He began turning the handle with a retaliatory spleen. A bell on the handle rang with every revolution until the speed was up. “
Ting! Ting! Ting!”
it went, as the thirty-two disks spun faster and faster, building up the force that would separate the milk, particle by particle. When the bell stopped ringing he turned the valve and let the milk flow from the bowl on to the float. The whining groan of the heavy parts whirling in the machine was the only sound in the kitchen.
After he had run all the milk through, he poured the warm cream into one of the cans on the porch and wrote out two tags on the kitchen table.
“I’m going over town to take in the cream and I’ll take Lucy,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”
“Why do
you
have to take it? Isn’t Otto going to pick it up today?”
“I want to go in and weigh it myself on old man Adams’s scales,” George said. He was being half honest. He
did
want to check on the weights he’d been getting from the creamery in Jamestown. But mostly this was the best excuse he could think of for getting over to see Will during the daytime when he could try to catch him alone outside. “Besides,” he added, “I don’t trust Wilkes as far as I could throw his Percheron by the tail. If he thought he could get away with it, I wouldn’t put it past him to bring along an empty can of his own and just fill it up with a few dips out of all the other cans he hauls.”
“Oh, George,” Rachel said. “You
mustn’t
talk that way about a
neighbor!”
She glanced at Lucy, waiting behind George with her lunch pail. Lucy looked back with that assured gaze that said as clearly as a seven-year-old could, “Do you think I don’t know all about the Wilkeses?”
“Phooey!” George said. He couldn’t stand her sob-sister delicacy—just like her old man’s. “
You
know the scoundrel as well as
I
do!” He started out the door. “Is there anything you need? You never answered my question.”
“No … not really. But if you have time I wish you’d stop by the folks’ and pick up that old brooder Dad said we could have. You’re going to have to fix it before we can use it and you might as well get it so you can work on it this
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