in. Then Derek heard the soft voice of Jammery. He followed the others into the kitchen.
Jammery stood in the open doorway, an amused smile curving his sensitive lips.
"Well," cried Mrs. Machin, "this is a nice way to treat us after all these years, and all we've done for you."
"It's not my fault, really," protested Jammery. "It's the old man. Mr. Chard got around him somehow, and we've got to do what he says or he and the old woman'd make the place too hot to hold us."
"What is to become of my fruit?" demanded Vale. "Where are the white pickers who used to pick for Chard—the mean cur—could we get them?"
"They have a prejudice agin us here because we've always employed Indians," said Mrs. Machin. "But we've got to get pickers from somewheres, for tomorrow's the last day for the Saturday market."
"I was thinking," said Jammery, "that if Mr. Vale will pay my way I'll go to Brancepeth and see a family of Indians I know there. I might be able to get them."
"If you do I'll make it worth your while." Already Vale was growing hopeful for his cherries. "And you fellows," he added, turning to his men, "can get busy and help pick. I shall take a hand at it myself."
"I'm cuttin' hay," protested Hugh McKay.
"Cuttin' hay, are you?" snapped Mrs. Machin. "I'm glad you told me. I thought you was just standin' there gapin'."
"Weel, I'm goin' to cut it, if I can ever get out o' this kitchen," shouted McKay, angrily, and, pushing Jammery out of his way, he flung off to his fields.
Mrs. Machin turned to Windmill. "You take the light wagon and go into Mistwell and see what left-overs you can pick up. Tell them the pickin's fine and there'll be hot
