“For all the Gods!”
“What is it?” I startled. This was the closest I’d heard Papa get to swearing.
He lifted the milking-pail to reveal a wet stain on the earthen floor. A defiant fat drop fell, confirming.
It was our only pail.
I emptied the soup-pot into our bowls. “I’ll scrub this, Papa. It’ll cool and do till the morrow, when I’ll take the pail to the tinker. He’ll repair it for my comb.”