Racing the Storm
Mr. Hooper’s startling news brought the festival to an end.
Several orchard owners besides Carl Wingate were at the affair. They,
too, were alarmed lest the Mexican pickers leave Rosedale and fail to
return another season.
Not only Mr. McLean, Carl Wingate and Pa Hooper, but several other men
said they would drive at once to the Mexican camp.
“Can’t we go too?” Veve coaxed Miss Gordon.
The Brownie leader hesitated.
“Maybe we could help,” Veve argued. “After all, the Mexicans are
leaving because they weren’t allowed at the festival. And I invited
them.”
“We might be able to clear up the misunderstanding.” The Brownie leader
spoke thoughtfully. “I certainly don’t want the Mexicans to leave the
community. Nor for that matter to feel that we turned them away from
our social gathering.”
The mothers and fathers of the Brownies all were interested in seeing
that the cherry pickers did not leave Rosedale.
Mr. Davidson, Connie’s father, and Mr. Webber offered to drive their
cars to the Mexican camp. Everyone piled into the three automobiles.
“Drive fast,” Connie urged her father. “If we don’t hurry, we will get
there too late.”
In a short while, the cars reached the site of the Mexican camp.
The tents had been taken down and the animals and furniture loaded into
several trucks.
As the Brownies followed their parents and Miss Gordon along the dark
trail leading from the road, they could hear the sound of men’s voices.
Carl Wingate was arguing with several of the Mexicans.
“See here!” he said angrily. “You can’t pull out and leave us in the
lurch. You signed a contract to pick cherries for the season.”
“Senor, you mistreated us,” one of the Mexicans replied. “You beat my
son, Juan, with a stick. Tonight you drove the children away from the
festival after they had been invited there. We Mexicans are a proud
race.”
“You’re insolent and lazy!” Wingate retorted. “You’re not breaking
camp because you’ve been mistreated. Oh, no! You’ve learned that
they’re paying a half cent more for pickers up north. That’s why you’re
leaving.”
“It is not true, Senor.”
“Unload those trucks!” Wingate ordered.
“No, Senor.”
The elderly Mexican eyed the orchard owner for a moment. Then, wrapping
his serape tightly about him, he started to climb into the cab of the
truck.
Carl Wingate seized him by the shoulder.
“Listen, you!” he said furiously. “A storm is coming up. If we’re
to save the unpicked fruit, it must be harvested tonight. We need
pickers--now!”
The Mexican leader remained unmoved. “Senor should have thought of that
before,” he shrugged. “It is too late now.”
He gave the signal for the trucks to move out of the camp.
“Wait!” requested Pa Hooper. “I’m sure the orchard owners want to be
fair. If you will pick my trees tonight before the storm breaks, I
will pay a half cent more. I can’t afford it, but I will do it rather
than lose my fruit.”
“We do not ask more money, Senor. Only better treatment.”
“You’ll get it at my orchard,” Pa Hooper assured the Mexican leader.
Juan’s father hesitated, and it seemed for a moment that he might
change his mind. Then he shook his head.
“It is no use, Senor,” he said. “We have made up our minds. We leave
now.”
“Well, this writes finish to my plans for the cherry festival,” Mr.
McLean said unhappily. “Too bad!”
Mr. Hooper also moved back from the truck. He was very discouraged.
Although it was not his fault that the pickers were leaving, he would
lose more than any of the other orchard owners.
At the far end of the line of trucks, Veve spied Juan sitting on a pile
of canvas with some other children. She hurried over to speak to him.
“Oh, Juan!” she said. “It isn’t fair for the pickers to leave when Mr.
Hooper needs them so badly.”
“My father has decided,” answered Juan. “We are unwanted here.”
“Oh, that isn’t so, Juan. It was all a mistake that you were ordered
away from the festival tonight.”
“That’s true,” added Connie. She had followed Veve to the truck. “Mr.
Wingate had no right to order you away. After all, it wasn’t his
festival.”
“The Brownies all wanted you to be there,” Veve said, noticing that
Juan was listening hard to Connie’s arguments.
“And so did Miss Gordon, our leader,” Connie went on. “She said it
would be a shame if the pickers left the community.”
“In a way, I will be sorry to go,” Juan admitted.
“Then why not stay?” Veve urged.
“It is no fun being kept always near camp. The shop people do not want
us in their stores. We cannot use the beaches.”
Connie and Veve could not blame the Mexicans for feeling as they did.
“If it could be fixed up so that the Mexicans could go places and have
fun, then would you stay?” Veve asked. She spoke hurriedly for she saw
that the trucks were starting to pull away.
“Perhaps we would stay,” Juan agreed. “That would be for my father to
decide.”
“Then tell him to stop the trucks!” Veve said excitedly. “I will talk
to Mr. McLean and Mr. Hooper.”
Still Juan hesitated.
“Oh, please do it,” Veve pleaded. “It isn’t fair for Mr. Hooper to lose
his cherries.”
Juan suddenly made up his mind to do as the little girl requested.
Leaping off the back of the truck, he called to his father who was
driving one of the heavily laden vehicles ahead.
Juan spoke rapidly in Spanish. The girls could not understand what he
said.
However, Juan’s father not only stopped his truck, but ordered the
others to wait in line.
Elated, Veve and Connie ran back to Mr. Hooper and Mr. McLean.
“If you want the Mexicans to stay, tell them that they are invited to
the cherry festival!” she cried.
“And that they may use the beach near the cannery!” added Connie.
“Why, of course we’ll be glad to have the Mexicans attend the
festival,” the Chamber of Commerce president replied instantly. “It is
for everyone. Tell you what! We’ll offer them a regular part in the
show!”
“That would be splendid!” cried Veve.
“I’m sure they’d like it,” agreed Connie, clapping her hands. “And they
have Mexican wares to display!”
“A Mexican dancing and singing act would be the ticket,” declared Mr.
McLean. “It would add to the festival too.”
Veve and Connie ran back to the truck to report to Juan.
His eyes began to sparkle as the girls told him about Mr. McLean’s
plans for including the Mexicans in the cherry festival.
“I would like to stay,” he said at once. “Wait! I will ask my father.”
Juan talked to him for a while. The girls could not understand what was
said, for it was in Spanish.
But Juan’s father then spoke to other men among the pickers. Finally,
after much arguing and gesturing, the Mexicans approached Mr. Hooper
and Mr. McLean.
“Is it true, Senor, that my people will be welcome at the cherry
fiesta?” he inquired.
Mr. McLean assured him that it was so. He promised also, that the
Mexicans would receive better treatment from the orchard owners.
“And does Senor Wingate agree to this?” Juan’s father asked.
Mr. Wingate had no choice but to say that he did.
Grudgingly, he promised that he never again would strike any of the
pickers, even if they annoyed him. He said, too, that he would allow
them longer lunch hours when they returned to the orchard next season.
“Well, that’s settled,” Mr. McLean declared in relief. “We’ll get the
fruit in, and hold the festival after all.”
The night was coming on very dark. Even in the glow of the camp
lanterns, the sky seemed much blacker than usual.
“That storm is moving this way,” Mr. Wingate said, scanning the
fast-moving clouds. “We must get the cherries into the shed. Drive your
trucks direct to my orchard and let’s get at ’em. There’s no time to
lose.”
Juan’s father did not like the order.
“No, Senor,” he said. “First, we will finish the picking in Mr.
Hooper’s orchard.”
“But you haven’t completed your work for me,” Mr. Wingate said angrily.
“It will only take an hour or so.”
Mr. McLean broke into the conversation.
“It’s only fair that Mr. Hooper should have a chance at the pickers,”
he said. “He’s been forced to wait on you several days. Also, if the
storm breaks, he has more to lose.”
Mr. Wingate did not like the arrangement. But he could do nothing about
it.
The Mexicans drove at once to the Hooper orchard. Soon the trees were
dotted with lighted lanterns as the professional strippers went to work
with a will.
“Will you save your fruit, Mr. Hooper?” Miss Gordon asked the orchard
owner anxiously.
With the Brownies and their parents, she had stopped at the shed to see
how the work was progressing.
“I hope so,” Mr. Hooper answered. “But it will be nip and tuck. That
storm is rolling up fast, and it looks like it will be a bad one when
it breaks.”
“Why don’t we all pick?” Connie proposed.
Miss Gordon had been thinking of the same thing. She had hesitated
to suggest it, however, knowing that it was after eight o’clock. The
Brownies, she knew, should be home in their beds.
“I could use a dozen more pickers,” Mr. Hooper said before the Brownie
leader could reply. “If I had them, I might beat the storm!”
“May we pick?” Connie appealed to Miss Gordon.
“Please let us!” urged Jane and Veve.
Miss Gordon replied that it was not a matter for her to decide. She
thought the parents of each girl should make the decision.
“Connie may pick for a while,” her father answered at once.
“Furthermore, I’ll help her!”
“And I’ll race Eileen to see who can strip the most cherries!” declared
Mr. Webber.
All of the Brownies were granted permission to pick. Veve had no
father, but her mother was there. Even though Mrs. McGuire had on a
good dress, she wanted to help too.
“We’re the Brownies,
Here’s our aim--
Lend a hand
and play the game!” warbled Veve crazily as she carried her four gallon
pail into the orchard.
The other Brownies took up the song, singing it with a will.
Soon, in another section of the orchard, the Mexican pickers also began
to sing. Everyone worked feverishly.
The warm night air had turned slightly colder. Connie, who was picking
as fast as she could, felt a gust of cool wind on her neck.
Pulling her sweater closer about her, she glanced up into the sky. The
black clouds were fairly boiling.
“The storm certainly is coming!” Mr. Williams said. “It’s not far off
either!”
In the nearby trees, everyone began to strip even faster. No one took
time to go back and forth to the shed.
Mr. Hooper himself collected the buckets.
“Good work!” he praised the Brownies and their fathers. “We may beat
the storm yet, but it will be close.”
“How are the Mexican pickers doing?” Connie’s father inquired.
“They’ve gone at it with a will,” the orchard owner reported. “Never
saw ’em strip trees so fast. If this storm just gives us a break, we’ll
make it.”
The storm, however, drew closer and closer. Suddenly, the clouds
overhead parted as a flash of lightning made the orchard as bright as
day.
Connie uttered a squeal of terror. She was not really frightened, but
the brilliant light had startled her.
“Better hike to the shed,” her father warned.
Even as he spoke, Connie felt the first drop of rain on her hand.
Other large drops began to splatter through the leaves of the cherry
trees.
Mr. Hooper came hurrying from the shed. “This is it,” he said. “All the
Brownies take your buckets to the shed.”
Connie and the other girls raced for shelter. Their fathers stayed a
few minutes and then they too ran to get in out of the rain.
The Mexican pickers, however, did not seem to mind. Nearly all of them
stayed in the orchard, picking until their tree was stripped clean.
Juan was laughing as he tramped into the shed, his clothing soaked. His
feet were muddy too, but his pail was brimming full of cherries.
“That’s the last of them,” he told Veve. “Mr. Hooper won’t lose thirty
pounds because of the storm. The orchard is nearly bare.”
The rain now was falling so fast, that the Brownies could not make a
dash for the automobiles. Instead, they waited in the shed.
Mr. Hooper was very pleased to have saved his fruit. He thanked
everyone for the help he had received.
“Here is the money I owe the Brownies and their helpers,” he said,
giving Miss Gordon a check. “It doesn’t half express my appreciation.”
The Brownies gathered around their leader to read the amount of the
check.
“Seventy-two dollars and forty-nine cents!” Sunny Davidson exclaimed.
“Why that’s almost a hundred dollars when you count the money we made
on our crazy quilt!”
“Did we really pick that many cherries?” Veve asked.
“You certainly did with the help of your parents,” Mr. Hooper replied.
“Next year you’ll be able to earn more--”
He checked himself and finished rather lamely: “that is, you will if
you pick for me.”
“Of course, we’ll work for you!” declared Veve before she stopped to
think. “You wouldn’t catch us stripping for Mr. Wingate.”
The remark embarrassed the Brownies. Too late, Connie nudged Veve as a
hint to keep silent.
“I’ll certainly want the Brownies to work for me,” Mr. Hooper said in
a hearty voice. “Couldn’t have a better crew! The trouble is--I won’t
have an orchard.”
For a moment no one made any reply. The Brownies did not like to think
of Mr. Hooper losing his place.
“If I could hold on to the orchard, I’d rebuild the house,” Mr. Hooper
went on. “I’ve lived here most of my life, and I’d like to keep the
place ’til the end of my days. But it can’t be.”
“Won’t Mr. Wingate consider selling, even if he does take over the
orchard according to the terms of the will?” Miss Gordon inquired.
“Not a chance,” Mr. Hooper told her. “I talked with him only yesterday.
Carl Wingate doesn’t want money. It’s this orchard he’s after--it’s one
of the best in the valley.”
The rain had slackened. After peering out the shed windows, the
Brownies decided they could make a dash for the parked cars.
“I guess we should be going,” said Miss Gordon rather reluctantly. “It
is late for the children.”
Even then, she did not make a move to leave. Nor did the Brownies.
In truth, they were sorry to say good-bye to Mr. Hooper. Unless they
made a special trip to the orchard, they might not see him again.
They were certain it would never be as much fun to pick cherries for
another orchard owner.
“How long will you be able to keep your place here?” Mrs. Davidson
asked the old man.
“That’s hard to tell,” he replied. “As soon as the will is probated,
I’ll probably turn over the orchard.”
“Is there no possibility that your sister’s will can be set aside?”
“I was talking to Judge Hutchins about it,” Mr. Hooper said. “I could
fight it out in the courts, but it would make an ugly mess. Besides,
except for Ella’s first will, I can’t produce any of her handwriting.”
“It seems unfair to lose your beautiful orchard,” Mrs. Davidson
murmured. “I wish we could do something to help.”
“It’s just one of those things, ma’am.” Mr. Hooper tried to speak
cheerfully. “I’ll find another place. Not in Rosedale though. I intend
to move far away.”
“At least you’ll have a good profit from your cherries.”
“Yes, I’ve done well,” Mr. Hooper agreed. “No complaint on that score.
But if it hadn’t been for the Brownies, I’d have lost all my profit.”
The orchard owner walked with the girls and their parents to the cars.
Only a few drops of rain now fell, for the storm had passed over as
quickly as it had come.
Across the roadway, the wind had severely tossed Mr. Wingate’s cherry
trees. Fruit from those which had not been completely stripped lay on
the ground.
“I’m sorry for Carl Wingate,” Mr. Hooper remarked. “He didn’t lose much
of his harvest though. Next year he’ll treat the Mexican pickers more
kindly.”
Juan and a half dozen other Mexican children ran over to the car to say
good-bye to the Brownies. They had enjoyed picking cherries in the rain.
“Don’t forget the festival next week,” Veve reminded her little friend.
“Oh, no, Senorita,” Juan returned, flashing his wide smile. “We will
stay in camp here until after the fiesta is over. Then we travel north
to pick more cherries.”
“And next year you’ll be back again?”
“_Si, Senorita._ We will return.”
Tired and sleepy, Veve snuggled into the comfortable cushions of Mr.
Davidson’s car.
What an exciting night it had been for the Brownies! Mr. Hooper’s
harvest had been saved and the Mexican pickers coaxed to remain.
Best of all, the cherry festival was still ahead!