“But no!” With a quick exclamation of joy, he read:
“Congratulations. The North Star awaits your order.”
“Couldn’t be better,” was the way the boy expressed it as he walked among the gold laden fruit trees two hours later. He was talking to Madge Kennedy. No wall flower, this girl. Sun-browned arms, honest freckles, strong and healthy muscles, that was Madge Kennedy. Though only nineteen years of age, she had taken over the largest share of the task of keeping the orchard in order.
Underbrush and creepers grow fast in this warm, moist land. A constant war must be waged against them. Johnny had found her doing her bit by swinging a short stout brush scythe. Two husky Carib Indians were working with her, but Johnny noted with no little pleasure that she was the best worker of the three.
After taking the scythe and finishing the swath, he dropped beside her in the evening shade, and told her of his success.
“It’s your grandfather’s chance, and yours,” he said with enthusiasm. “Think of it! Five thousand boxes of grapefruit. That many at least. And we’ll get the top price. America has never tasted such fruit. Your grandfather has the boxes ready to set up?”
She nodded.
“Then there’s nothing to stop us. Your grandfather can find men to pick and pack the fruit?”
“Carib Indians,” she said in quiet confidence, “hundreds of them, thousands if necessary. They love grandfather, every last one of them.
“Do you know, my friend,” her voice was husky, “my grandfather is a sort of second Livingston. Livingston went to Africa. Grandfather came to Central America. He has been all over it. There is no dark little spot in any tiny republic where he has not been. He has visited Maya Indians who were supposed to kill a white man at sight. They did not touch him. Love, sympathy and a simple modesty are the charms that protect him. There’s not a family within the district he has not helped in time of trouble. There is always plenty of trouble. Oh yes, he can find the men; without pay if necessary.”