“Well, sister,” he said, “if you put it that way--my name is Quiss--Harry B. Quiss. I live in New York--Hotel Huron. You can find me there when I’m not on location or at the studio.... The Crystal Films Corporation. We’re in the telephone book.” Mr. Quiss might have added that the Crystal Films Corporation was also on its beam-ends. But he couldn’t quite do that. All he could say was: “Better stick to papa while the sticking’s good, girlie. There’s no money in pictures. They all bust sooner or later. Take it from one who’s been blown sky-high more’n twice. And expects to go up more’n twice more.” He went slowly toward the pool below, gesticulating with his rod for emphasis: “There’s no money in pictures--not even for stars. I don’t know where it all goes to. Don’t ask me who gets it. I don’t, anyway.” CHAPTER VI On Monday evening at five o’clock the Whitewater herd was ready for milking. Odell, Ed Lister, and the foreman, Gene Lyford, scrubbed their hands and faces and put on clean white canvas clothes. Clyde Storm, helper, went along the lime-freshened concrete alleys, shaking out bran and tossing in clover-hay. Everywhere in the steel stanchions beautiful Guernsey heads were turned to watch his progress. In the bull-pen the herd-bull pried and butted at the bars. The barn vibrated with his contented lowing. Calves in their pens came crowding to the bars like herded deer, or went bucketing about, excited to playful combat by the social gathering after an all-day separation. In the stalls sleek flanks were being wiped down until they glistened like the coats of thoroughbred horses; udders were washed with tepid water; the whole place smelled fresh and clean as a hayfield. 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.