One evening in July he arrived at milking and a just-freshened heifer was belligerent, balking on the runway behind the stalls. Binter as usual ignored Jamie until he stepped behind the cow and with one hand to guide her neck used the other to screw the cow’s tail up over her back and like that she stepped up into the stall and Jamie went alongside her and pulled the stanchion closed against her neck. Her head went down in the trough, eating the soured leftover mash. Binter crouched at the flank of the cow beside, his fists wringing jets of milk to strike the side of the pail, the sharp ping giving way to a more hollow thump as the pail filled. His head turned sideways to rest a cheek against the belly of the cow. Looking at Jamie. And for the first time Jamie smiled at him, knowing the deal was already done. Jamie waited. After a time Binter turned his gaze back to the filling pail, his hands working slowly now, stripping the hindquarters and then the fore teats of the cow. Done, he looked at Jamie. The old man had a wen at the tip of his nose. He rose and stepped across the gutter and set the filled pail on the walkway. Turned his head to hawk into the gutter and looked at Jamie and nodded.

“Cash on the barrelhead. Once a week, no more often. Come chore time, morning or night. Never on Sunday. You want it bottled, bring your own glass. But you, you have the automobile. So you’d prefer by the cask. Do your own bottling. The casks you can bring back. That way too you don’t have to worry about underestimating your needs. Because”—he raised a finger in the air—“I am very serious about the once-a-week only.”

“I thought about that,” Jamie said. “Give me a couple weeks and I should have it tuned so I wouldn’t bother you but every two-three weeks. Best for both of us that way.”