“It’s the Mexican pickers. They’re leaving!”
“Leaving?” Mr. Wingate demanded. “Nonsense! A bunch of ’em were here not three quarters of an hour ago.”
“And that’s what caused the trouble. You ordered them away.”
“So what? The Mexicans know they’re not allowed to run riot in town. They’re supposed to stay in their own camp.”
“That’s why they’re dissatisfied,” Mr. Hooper insisted. “They feel they have no social rights. For a long time they’ve been dissatisfied. Sending them away from the festival tonight was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“The pickers can’t leave,” Mr. Wingate muttered. “There’s a good two hours work at my place yet. And your orchard!”
“They’re breaking camp now. A bad storm is rolling up too! Unless we can stop the pickers and get them to pick tonight, I’ll lose most of my cherries.”
Mr. McLean seized Carl Wingate’s arm. “Come on!” he urged. “We can’t let those pickers leave. We’ve got to get out there right away and stop them!”