But the stalks were already heavily laden with fruit; and those hanging lowest on the sturdy vines were already blushing.
“By Jo!” gasped Henry. “You've done it, ain't you? But the cannery won't take 'em yet awhile—and they'll all be gone before September.”
“The cannery won't get many of my tomatoes,” laughed Hiram. “And these vines properly trained and cultivated as they are, will bear fruit up to frost. You wait and see.”
“I'll have to tell dad to come and look at these. I dunno, Hiram, if you can sell 'em at retail, but you'll git as much for 'em as dad does for his whole crop—just as you said.”
“That's what I'm aiming for,” responded Hiram. “But would the ladies who cook the barbecue stew care for tomatoes, do you think?”
“We never git tomatoes this early,” said Henry. “How about potatoes? And there ain't many folks dug any of theirn yet, but you.”
So, after speaking with Mrs. Atterson, Hiram agreed to supply a barrel of potatoes for the barbecue, and the day before the Fourth, one of the farmers came with a wagon to pick up the supplies.
Everybody at the Atterson farm would go to the grove—that was understood.
“If one knocks off work, the others can,” declared Mother Atterson. “You see that things is left all right for the critters, Hiram, and we'll tend to things indoors so that we can be gone till night.”
“And do, Hiram, look out for my poults the last thing,” cried Sister.