“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—”