A man could not help but feel proud to see the baskets of plump, ripe strawberries spread in rows over the barn floor. They were so fresh, so excellent, that they could not fail to bring the highest price. Phœbe, kneeling on the floor, packed them into crates, each holding two dozen boxes. Mrs. Machin, sitting on a chair, examined each carrier of six boxes, as it was brought in, and, if it were satisfactory, paid the picker in tickets valued at one cent each. Solomon Sharroe and Jammery, she told Vale, were the best pickers, and could pick four hundred boxes each in a day, in the height of the season. The women picked well but were not to be depended on, often leaving the patch half-picked, to take the tram-car to Brancepeth, where they would spend all their earnings on fancy shoes and hats, and, often, their men's earnings too.
Vale had taken up a basket and was picking out the largest berries and eating them with a boy's mischievous pleasure in Mrs. Machin's disapproving glances. He dropped one to a rangy Dorking rooster which was picking in the straw at his feet. The bird, snatching up the unexpected prize, gallantly called his hens who came with long strides from the barnyard, wings spread and beaks agape. The crimson berry was presented with coaxing clucks to the favourite, who gulped it whole and pecked greedily at the juice on her lord's yellow beak. Vale began tossing berries to the other hens.
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