CHAPTER 2 Cherry Pickers Wanted

QUILTS and coverlets no longer seemed important to Veve and Connie as they realized that they were stranded at the bus stop.

An hour might pass before another Fulton bus came along. How were they to reach the cherry orchard?

“We never should have gone to that lady’s house to see the quilt,” Connie said, self-accusingly. “Oh, dear!”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Veve replied. “I made you go.”

“At any rate, the bus is gone, and we’re not on it. What shall we do?”

Veve had no answer.

However, Mrs. Grayson had been watching the two girls from her front porch. Of course she knew that they had missed their bus. Still wearing a kitchen apron, she came down the sidewalk toward them.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Were you traveling far?”

“To Wingate Farm,” Veve supplied. She had to sniff very hard to keep from crying.

“Why, that’s not far,” declared Mrs. Grayson. “I know! I’ll get the car out of the garage and drive you there.”

At this unexpected proposal, Veve and Connie instantly perked up.

“Oh, will you take us?” Connie asked, all dimples. “Won’t it make you too much trouble?”

“Not in the least. Wait here, and I’ll soon pick you up.”

Mrs. Grayson re-entered her own home to change from her apron. Less than five minutes later she came outdoors again, this time wearing a hat and a light tan coat.

“Here we are,” she said, bringing her coupé to a standstill beside the curb.

Connie slid in beside Mrs. Grayson, while Veve sat on the outside. On the way to Wingate Farm, the girls chatted gaily, telling about their Brownie Troop and the quilt show which was planned.

Veve told her too about the exciting times the Brownies had enjoyed the previous year—at Snow Valley, and later with the circus folk. Both of these stories are related in the volumes, “The Brownie Scouts at Snow Valley,” and “The Brownie Scouts in the Circus.”

“I was the youngest Brownie to be ’nitiated,” Veve explained proudly. “Miss Gordon says I make more trouble than all the others put together. That’s because I’m always thinking up things to do.”

“Veve once was carried away on a sled hooked to an automobile,” Connie revealed. “Then another time, she crawled into a circus car and—”

“Never mind that,” broke in Veve. “I’m grown up now. Was it my fault we missed the bus?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Connie admitted. “Anyway, it’s much nicer riding with Mrs. Grayson.”

The girls began to talk of quilts once more. Mrs. Grayson told them that there were some which had political or patriotic names such as the Union Calico quilt, the Yankee Puzzle and the Confederate Rose.

“And do you have samples of them?” Connie asked eagerly. She hoped, of course, that the unusual quilts might be obtained for the Brownie quilt show.

“The only quilt of quality I have is the one you saw,” the woman replied. “And then, the woven Washington coverlet.”

“May we have them both for our Brownie display?” Connie asked the question before Veve could frame the same one.

“Yes, I think I can promise you the quilt and the coverlet,” Mrs. Grayson replied.

Veve sat very still for a moment. She was glad that Connie had obtained both a quilt and a coverlet for the show. All the same, she wished she had thought of asking for them first.

Mrs. Grayson had slowed the car to peer at mailboxes along the road. The name, Carl Wingate, had been painted on one of them.

“Here we are,” the lady announced. “Wingate Farm.”

All along the road the cherry trees were so loaded with scarlet fruit that the boughs hung almost on the ground. The girls had never seen a more beautiful sight.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right now?” Mrs. Grayson asked, opening the car door. “Oh, yes,” Connie assured her. “Thank you for the ride and the quilt.”

Scarcely noticing as Mrs. Grayson drove on, the girls gazed up and down the road. On either side, as far as could be seen, stretched row upon row of cherry trees.

“It looks like a sea of red,” Veve declared in awe. “There must be millions and millions of pounds of cherries here! Don’t you wish we could pick them all?”

“Every single one!” laughed Connie.

Both girls were now in high good humor, thinking of the money they and the other Brownies would make for the troop. Unfastening the gate, they walked between rows of cherry trees, up a winding driveway toward the house.

When the two girls were half-way up to the dwelling, they heard someone speaking in a loud, angry voice. At first they could not guess who might be talking, for they could not see the speaker.

But his voice reached them very clearly.

“Juan, you’re a lazy, no-good!” the man shouted. “Three times today I’ve told you not to bruise the fruit in stripping it! But do you pay attention? Not the slightest. Either you’ll take orders, or quit the orchard. Savey?”

“Si, Senor,” came the muttered reply.

“Now get back to your picking,” the man snapped.

Veve and Connie had rounded a bend in the road and now were able to see the two speakers. The man, who wore a rough checkered shirt and large straw hat, was short and fat. His sunburned face twisted into hard lines as he talked.

The one he addressed appeared to be a Mexican lad, no older than 10 or 12 years of age. Juan was dressed in ragged grayish-white trousers and shirt. He too wore a straw hat to protect himself from the sun, but was barefoot.

The boy scooted off with his empty cherry pail as the girls approached. Rather nervously, Connie and Veve spoke to the man, who eyed them in a most unfriendly way.

“We’re looking for Mr. Wingate,” said Connie politely.

“Well?” the man demanded.

“Can you tell us where to find him?”

“I am Wingate. What d’you want? Be brief, because I’ve got work to do.”

Connie and Veve gazed at each other in dismay. From the very first moment, they had disliked this man because of his rough way of speaking. And now he proved to be Mr. Wingate, the man for whom they expected to work!

“Well, what d’you want?” the owner of the orchard repeated. He fast was losing patience. “Out with it!”

“Please—” Connie swallowed twice and struggled on. “We would like a job picking cherries.”

“Not just us,” Veve amended quickly. “All of the Brownies.”

“The Brownies?” Mr. Wingate demanded. “Who are they? Fairies?”

“Oh, no!” Connie corrected. “We’re an organization. Our troop motto is: ‘Lend A Hand.’ That’s what we want to do here at your cherry orchard.”

“For pay, that is,” added Veve. She was afraid Mr. Wingate might get the wrong idea.

“I hire only experienced pickers,” the orchard owner said. “Can’t use kids.”

“But we heard you talking to a little boy,” Veve reminded him.

“Sure, but he’s one of the Mexicans. I use a crew of ’em—professional pickers. A stupid lot too!”

“Don’t you need any more pickers?” Connie persisted.

“I need experienced pickers, sure. My fruit is ripening fast and if I don’t get it marketed, I’ll lose a nice profit.”

“Then may we have the job?” Veve asked hopefully. She did not like Mr. Wingate, but she thought he might be nicer to the Brownies than to Juan.

“Listen!” the man exclaimed. “I told you once! I hire only experienced pickers. I can’t be bothered with a bunch of fairies—”

“Brownies,” said Connie, flushing. “And we are dependable. Ask Miss Gordon.”

“Run along,” Mr. Wingate ordered. “I have work to do and you’re bothering me.”

Thus dismissed, Veve and Connie dejectedly walked back to the main road. After all their hopes and plans, they were not to be allowed to pick cherries. It was very discouraging.

“Never mind, Veve,” her friend said to cheer her. “We’ll make money when we sell the crazy quilt.”

“But it would have been more fun to have picked cherries.”

“I don’t think it would have been very nice working for Mr. Wingate, Veve. He talked so ugly to that little Mexican boy. Miss Gordon never would have wanted us to work for him.”

“And he was fussy about the way the cherries were picked,” Veve agreed. “I guess it wouldn’t have been much fun.”

Arm in arm, the girls walked up the road, looking for a bus stop. They were becoming tired now, and wished that Mrs. Grayson had waited for them. Evidently, she had driven on home, for her coupé was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m thirsty,” Veve said presently. “I wish I had a drink of water. Or maybe a handful of those cherries.”

Thoughtfully she gazed toward a tree whose heavily laden branch hung over the fence.

“Oh, no you don’t!” said Connie, reading her mind. “Those cherries belong to Mr. Wingate. Not to us. We’re not taking a single one.”

“Who wants any of his stupid old fruit? Anyway, I think the trees on the other side of the road have larger and riper cherries.”

“We’re not taking any of those either, Veve McGuire!”

“Oh, I’m not swiping anything,” Veve retorted. “But it doesn’t do any harm to think how nice those juicy cherries would taste. SAY—”

The last was uttered in a loud voice, for the little girl had noticed a painted sign on the fence to the left.

In large red letters it read: “Pickers Wanted.”

“That’s us!” exclaimed Veve. “We’ll get a job for the Brownies yet!”

Connie, however, was less enthusiastic. She pointed out that very likely if they applied, they would be turned down again.

“Well, it won’t hurt to try,” Veve insisted.

“We may miss our bus again.”

“We’ll get home somehow,” Veve waved aside the objection. “Don’t you want a job, Connie?”

“’Course I do. Only I didn’t like Mr. Wingate.”

“But this is across the road, so it can’t be his orchard. The gate’s just ahead. Let’s go in, Connie. I’ll do the talking this time.”

The barrier had been securely fastened with a chain. The girls could not open it. However, they climbed over and started up the gravel driveway.

Cherry trees were everywhere, fairly dripping red treasure. Under many of the boughs, fruit had fallen to the ground.

A few ladders stood against the low, well-pruned trees. Back in the orchard only a few pickers could be seen.

In vain the girls looked about for a dwelling. Where a house once had stood there now was only a gaping, burned-out hole.

“Why, the place is all gone except its foundation!” Veve exclaimed. “The house must have burned a long while ago, and never was rebuilt.”

The only building to be seen was a long, low shed in which cherries were sorted and packed for market.

Stepping to the open doorway, the girls peered inside.

A bent old man, his back toward them, busily packed cherries into a big box. He whirled around upon hearing footsteps. And a shaggy white dog that had been dozing in a corner, sprang up with a warning snarl.

Startled, Veve and Connie retreated.

“Down, Cap!” the old man ordered the animal. To the girls he said: “Don’t be afraid. He won’t bite you or anyone else. I keep him on the place to frighten off intruders. His bark, though, is all bluff.”

Thus reassured, Veve and Connie stood their ground. They rather liked the old man who looked like a farmer in blue overalls and white shirt. His face was friendly and his eyes twinkled as he studied them.

“I’m Pa Hooper,” he introduced himself. “What may I do for you young ladies?”

Now this made Connie and Veve feel quite at ease. And even Cap tried to show them that they were welcome, for he came sniffing at their heels.

“We saw your sign,” Veve said, going directly to the point. “We would like a job picking cherries.”

As Mr. Hooper kept studying her, not saying a word, she told him about the Brownie organization. And Connie added that Mr. Wingate next door had sent them away most rudely.

“We may not be experienced pickers, but we can learn,” she declared. “Just give us a chance and we’ll prove what Brownies can do.”

Pa Hooper was greatly impressed with the direct approach of the two little girls.

He told them he very much needed pickers because some of the larger orchards had hired most of the Mexican pickers.

Unless his fruit could be harvested quickly, he might lose a large portion of it.

“Then are we hired?” Veve questioned.

Still Mr. Hooper hesitated.

“I scarcely know what to say,” he told her kindly. “Cherry picking isn’t as easy as it looks. You might fall from a ladder and hurt yourself. In that case, I’d be liable.”

“Brownies are taught to be careful,” Veve assured him. “You wouldn’t catch us falling off a ladder!”

Pa Hooper chuckled. “I pay a cent and a half a pound for stripping,” he explained. “That’s not as good a rate as some of the orchards offer. It takes a lot of cherries to weigh a pound.”

“We won’t mind,” Connie said. “Please, Mr. Hooper, let us try! The trees aren’t high, and you could let us pick the lower branches.”

The orchard owner thought a moment. Then he said:

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Suppose I test you with a half hour’s picking? If you do well, and think you would like the work, then I might hire all the Brownies. How many are there of you?”

“Six, not counting Miss Gordon,” supplied Veve. “Where do we start?”

Mr. Hooper said he would show the girls as soon as he had finished packing another lug.

The box was a fancy one, filled with especially large cherries.

Other boxes in the shed were “jumble” pack. This, Mr. Hooper explained, meant that the fruit was not placed in any particular order.

After he had finished sorting cherries for the fancy box, the orchard owner told the girls to follow him.

Mr. Hooper led them to a low-hanging tree near the roadway. Two short ladders already were in place.

The orchard owner showed the girls how to strip cherries rapidly from the trees.

Even if a few stems fell into the pail, it would not matter, he said. Once the cherries reached the canning factory, they would be washed and stemmed.

“I’ll be back here in half an hour,” Mr. Hooper said. He handed each girl a tall tin bucket. “Just be careful. Don’t climb more than a few steps on the ladders.”

Veve and Connie mounted separate ladders. At first they went up only three steps. It was easy to reach the fruit.

“Let’s have a race,” Veve proposed. “I can pick more cherries than you, Connie!”

Both girls stripped as fast as they could. But try as they would, they could not make the fruit fall into the pail as fast as Mr. Hooper had done.

When Connie’s bucket was half filled, she began to feel a little tired.

“It’s getting late,” she remarked uneasily. “I wish Mr. Hooper would come back.”

The girls had seen one Rosedale bus pass the orchard, and they knew another soon would be due.

Unless they started for home very shortly they were afraid their parents would worry.

“Oh, here comes Mr. Hooper now,” Veve announced a little later. She felt very much relieved.

“We’ve picked a lot of cherries,” Connie said proudly. “Do you suppose he’ll think we have done all right?”

Veve nodded and stretched her cramped arms.

For a moment she stood quite still on the fifth step of the ladder. From her perch, she could gaze directly across the roadway into the Wingate orchard.

Apparently, something the little girl saw there startled her.

At any rate, she twisted around to obtain a better view.

Now in doing so, Veve’s right arm came sharply against the half-filled pail of cherries. It teetered and started to fall.

Frantically, the little girl clutched to save the bucket.

But her hand missed. Down clattered the tin pail, spilling cherries in every direction!

Nor was that the extent of the disaster. In working convulsively to save the precious fruit, Veve had thrown the ladder off balance.

For a moment it wobbled and swayed.

Then, as she uttered a wild yell, it slipped sideways, hurling her to the ground.