"Oh, don't hurry so fast. I'll go, too. But s'posing he won't let us pick berries for him?"
"I ain't s'posing any such thing. We've picked strawberries before. Why, Allee knows how. Anyone with sense can do a thing like that!"
"Is—are you going to take Allee along if he should give us the job?"
"No, her shoes will last a long time yet. She doesn't need any new ones."
By this time they had reached the long, low, green house on the farm adjoining theirs, and almost bumped into Mr. Hartman himself, as they dashed breathlessly around the corner in search of him.
"Highty, tighty!" ejaculated the startled man, leaping aside to avoid a collision. "What are you young rapscallions doing over here? You better make tracks for home."
"Ramscallion yourself," Peace burst out hotly, nursing a stubbed toe and winking rapidly to keep the tears back. "We've come to pick your strawberries."
"You have, eh? Well now, what if I won't let you?"
"Then we'll go home. Come, Cherry!" Grabbing her sister's hand, she marched angrily toward the road, but he called after her, "What will you pick berries for?"
"Five cents a quart," she replied briefly, not looking around or slackening her gait in the least.