Effie slammed the kitchen door and Willie Jones showed how deeply impressed he was by putting his thumb on the end of his nose and wiggling his fingers in a manner that Margery had often been told was highly improper.
"Well, come on," he said briskly. "It's time for us to be moving or we never will get two quarts picked."
So off they started, a good half hour's tramp in the sun. The blackberry patch was in a far unused corner of the graveyard, adjoining a plot of unconsecrated ground where, as Willie and Margery had often heard, only murderers were buried. There was, of course, the usual No Trespassing sign to meet and pass, the wire fence to slip under, and a short stretch of clay and rubble which ended suddenly in a thick brake of blackberry bushes. Once in the patch all that was necessary was to keep a sharp eye on the gravedigger's house, which stood on a knoll beyond, in plain sight, but far enough away to give one a good chance of escape in case of detection.
"Now, I'll let you hold the pail, Margery, and I'll pick into my hat. Jiminy! They haven't been picked over to-day at all. We'll get our two quarts easy."
"H'm," murmured Margery, tentatively. There was a little matter upon which she had been speculating ever since they had left home. "Are—are you going to give me half the money?"
"What money?"
"Why, don't you know, the money your mother's going to pay you for these berries."
"Oh."
The Oh was all Willie had to answer.
"Well, are you?"