"Tom Easton - The Bung Hole Caper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

engine, it was nearly as decrepit as its toothless, flatulent owner. But it made good cider.

Cyrus binned his apples and watched the endless belt haul them up the chute to the grinder. As old Bob
paddled the pulp into the burlapped flats for the press, Cyrus said, "Got a barrel now." He had to roar to
be heard above the machinery.

Bob glanced up from his work. "Good for you."

"Ayuh. Old one. Found it out in the barn."

"Hope it's tight," Bob held up a hand to examine a gob of apple pulp sticking to a thumb. He licked it off.
"Good apples this year, Cyrus."

"Should hope so. M'nured the bejeezus out of 'em. Soaked the barrel, too."

"Oughta do it. Stand back now." Bob threw a switch, and the grinder overhead groaned into silence. He
flipped the last fold of burlap into place, laid a flat on top, and leaned into the pile of neatly wrapped
squares of pulp. They rolled into the press on their dolly and jolted to a stop. He hauled on the lever that
lowered the immense plate of the press into position. He flipped the lever that fed power to the belt that
drove the press's screw. The screw turned. The plate mashed down. Juice spurted from the flats,
collected in the gutters, and was pumped to the holding tank on the wall above their heads.

"Where's that cup?" asked Cyrus. Bob turned to point at the wall. There hung, just as it did every fall, a
battered dipper. Once it had been enameled gray and blue. Now it was mostly rust, but Cyrus didn't
mind. He took it off its nail and held it to catch the dripping cider. He drank deeply, and then he offered it
to Bob. "It's good."

"Ayuh. Barrel'll do it more good'n them plastic jugs of yours, too."

"Hope so." The juice was sweet and tart, yet not too tart. Once hardened and settled, it would have a
decent kick to it.

When the last drop of juice had left the press, Cyrus fetched his jugs from the car. They were the
five-gallon inflatable things the hardware store sold to campers. Cyrus had found them good for cider, for
maple sap at sugaring-off time, even for hauling water in dry spells. Now he puffed them open and held
than under the hose from the holding tank. They filled slowly, since the hose was none too big, but he
was in no great hurry. The cows would need milking when he got home, but they could wait for half an
hour. Sixty gallons of cider was well worth a little patience.

He didn't unload the trailer till after supper. Between milking the cows in the pasture and the other
chores, he had no time, and even then he didn't have enough. The barrel was in the barn, resting on its
side, the bung-hole neatly plugged, its filling port on top and open. He ranged his jugs beside it. Then he
selected one and took it into the house. "Fresh cider," he said to Allie. "Want a glass?" She did. They
drank. They filled a pitcher for the fridge and put the rest in smaller jugs for the freezer. It would keep
there, and they would have it for their grandchildren, for nieces and nephews, for themselves whenever
they didn't care for hard cider. "I'll put the rest in the barrel tomorrow," he told his wife, "That's soon
enough."

They refilled their glasses then, took them into their small living room, and turned on the news. And there
were the aliens again, big as life. It seemed the French had sent them a case of wine. They liked it, asked