"Not now, when they are 'most gone. And, besides, he told the butcher
that one of the big hotels in Martindale pays him twenty cents a quart
for all he will bring them. It's a special kind, you see, splendid big
ones, that only rich folks can 'ford to eat."

Cherry swung her feet thoughtfully as she read the alluring
advertisement once more, and pondered the question of such importance to
both little girls, but she ventured no reply.

"Well?" said Peace, sharply, after some moments of impatient silence.

"It's awfully hot to pick berries in the sun all day," yawned Cherry,
fingering her book longingly.

Peace snorted in disgust, and seizing the precious paper from her
sister's lap, she swung nimbly to the ground and started off across the
meadow on the other side of the fence.

"Wait, Peace! Where are you going?" cried Cherry, scrambling off her
perch, thoroughly awake now.

"To pick me a pair of shoes in Mr. Hardman's strawberry patch," answered
Peace, quickening her pace.

"Oh, don't hurry so fast. I'll go, too. But s'posing he won't let us
pick berries for him?"

"I ain't s'posing any such thing. We've picked strawberries before. Why,
Allee knows how. Anyone with sense can do a thing like that!"

"Is--are you going to take Allee along if he should give us the job?"

"No, her shoes will last a long time yet. She doesn't need any new
ones."

By this time they had reached the long, low, green house on the farm
adjoining theirs, and almost bumped into Mr. Hartman himself, as they
dashed breathlessly around the corner in search of him.

"Highty, tighty!" ejaculated the startled man, leaping aside to avoid a
collision. "What are you young rapscallions doing over here? You better
make tracks for home."

"Ramscallion yourself," Peace burst out hotly, nursing a stubbed toe and
winking rapidly to keep the tears back. "We've come to pick your
strawberries."

"You have, eh? Well now, what if I won't let you?"

"Then we'll go home. Come, Cherry!" Grabbing her sister's hand, she
marched angrily toward the road, but he called after her, "What will you
pick berries for?"

"Five cents a quart," she replied briefly, not looking around or
slackening her gait in the least.

He chuckled. "Huh! Your price is pretty steep."

"'Pends upon how you look at it," she flung back at him. "You pay that
to other folks, and we can pick as good as anyone. Mrs. Grinnell
always--"

"Mrs. Grinnell's berries are only scrubs."