Read Ebook: Poppy Ott's pedigreed pickles by Edwards Leo Salg Bert Illustrator

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Ebook has 1424 lines and 55326 words, and 29 pages

I Poppy's Pickle Parlor 1

II Our "Silent" Partner 16

V Butch McGinty 46

VI Poppy's "Aunt Jemima" Scheme 57

X The Gold Cucumber 96

XX Poppy Springs a Surprise 214

POPPY OTT'S PEDIGREED PICKLES

POPPY'S PICKLE PARLOR

When Poppy Ott jumps into a thing he usually knows where he's going to land. For he's a pretty smart boy for his age, as you probably will agree with me if you have read the earlier books that I have written about him. But, bu-lieve me, his wits sure were tangled up the day he got that "Pickle Parlor" idea! Or, at least, that is what I told him when he first sprung his brilliant little scheme on me.

In arguing with him, to bring him down to earth as it were, I tried to convince him that a Pickle Parlor was about as sensible as a barber shop for hairless poodles. No one, I said, referring to the people who bought groceries, would buy their sugar and other truck in one store and then walk a block to buy their pickles in a pickle store. That would be just extra work for them.

"They will," says he, sticking to his scheme, "if we have better pickles to sell them than they can buy in the average grocery store."

"Like almost everything else," says he, as solemn and wise as an old owl, "there's a big difference in pickles."

"Yah," says I, "some are sweet and some are sour."

"I mean," says he, "that of pickles of a kind some are much better than others. Take your own mother's pickles for example. You must have noticed that they've got a better taste than boughten pickles. And that largely explains why a great many women prefer to make their own pickles. They want better pickles than they can buy. So how easy for us to build up our new business if we get the right kind of pickles to sell!"

I gave him a sad look.

"Poppy," I sighed, "you're too much for me."

"What do you mean?"

"As long as you're a boy," I advised, as a further effort to pull him down to earth, "why don't you be a boy? This Peanut Parlor stuff is out of your line, kid."

"I didn't say anything about a Peanut Parlor."

"Well, a Pickle Parlor is just as crazy. You can't make it work. For pickles are groceries. And the place to buy them is in a grocery store."

"Jerry, if you wanted to buy a good cheap stove poker, what store would you go to?"

"To the Stove-poker Parlor," says I, tickled over my own smartness.

"Be serious."

"Well," I complied generously, "I might try the ten-cent store."

"The point is," says he, "that people will buy hardware in a novelty store, or, for that matter, anything in any kind of a store, if you make it an object for them to do so."

"Anyway," says I, yawning, "running a store is a man's job. So that lets us out."

But he was as unmoved as though he were the hill of Gibraltar itself, or whatever you call it.

"Of course," he reflected, referring to the suggested partnership, "it will be a fifty-fifty proposition."

Seeing that it was useless to argue with him further, I sort of resigned myself to my fate as his pickle partner.

"I have a hunch," says I, "that it's going to be a whole lot worse than that. A Pickle Parlor! We'll be the laugh of the town."

"The Wright brothers were laughed at when they tried to fly. And Edison was laughed at when he started working on his talking machine. The easiest thing some people can do is to ridicule any new idea that comes up. But we should worry how much the Tutter people laugh at us. To that point, I'd rather have them laugh at us than ignore us. For to be ridiculed is recognition of a sort."

"Help!" I cried, holding my head. "Get the dictionary."

To-day the stilt factory that we started is a growing business. Mr. Ott runs it. And so spruce and businesslike is he that at sight of him it's hard to believe that only a short time ago he was a shiftless, no-account tramp. In the book, POPPY OTT AND THE STUTTERING PARROT, I told in detail how Poppy made his father settle down and get a job. So you see my chum deserves credit for that good piece of work, too. Oh, you've got to hand it to Poppy, all right. He knows his cauliflower, as the saying is. From which, no doubt, you'll gather that I wasn't half as reluctant to become his Pickle Parlor partner as I had let on. I just talked against him for fun. All the time that I was running his scheme down I was thinking of the fun we were going to have and the money we were going to earn. Money! What boy doesn't like to have money? And how much more it means to a fellow when he earns the money himself. Yes, sir, if old long-head wanted to start a Pickle Parlor or any other kind of a parlor I was with him till the cows came home. Of course, I had everything to learn. But I could watch him. And at the very least I could dust off the pickles while he cleverly punched the cash register. Deep down in my heart I even confessed to myself that I was pretty lucky to have this chance of being his business partner, which shows how much I appreciate him. And it makes me happy to know that he feels the same way toward me. Two peas in a pod! That's what Dad calls us. But maybe, to better fit this particular case, I should make it two cucumbers on a cucumber vine! Huh?

Of the three Tutter banks Mr. Pennykorn's bank is the smallest and shabbiest. It gets its name from the canning factory that he owns. And if it wasn't for this factory I dare say the bank wouldn't have any business at all. For people as a rule don't like to do business with that kind of a bank any more than they like to trade in a dingy, sleepy-looking store. I've heard it said that the Pennykorn family is one of the richest in the county. But old Mr. Pennykorn is too tight fisted to spend any of his money for adding machines and other up-to-date bank stuff.

Waiting outside of the president's office, at the orders of the grumpy, suspicious-eyed cashier, we heard voices through the unlatched door. Nor did we feel that it was our duty to stuff up our ears.

"And what price have you posted for early sweet corn?" we heard Mr. Pennykorn inquire, from which we gathered that he was talking with his son, Mr. Norman Pennykorn, who runs the canning factory.

"Nine dollars a ton."

"Too much; too much," came in a sort of petulant, disapproving voice.

"But the farmers won't sell for any less."

"Um.... What's the Ashton Canning Company paying?"

"Ten-fifty."

"Fools! They could buy for less."

"The farmers aren't dumb. They know our price is too low. And as a result a lot of them, I've been told, are planning to haul their corn over to Ashton. It's only ten miles. And a difference of one-fifty a ton is a big item to them."

A chair creaked; after which we heard footsteps going back and forth.

"I told you, Norman, when that Ashton plant was built that we'd suffer from it. If we don't watch our steps they are going to seriously cut into our business."

"Well," came the grunt, "you won't help matters any by cutting the price on the farmers. For they're sore at us already."

"Um ..." studied the crafty banker. "It might be wise for us to buy up this Ashton plant. That would give us control of the local bottom-land acreage. The farmers then would have to sell to us at our price. Otherwise they wouldn't be able to sell at all unless they shipped. And the most of them are too dumb to attempt a thing like that."

"But our canned-corn outlet doesn't justify operating another plant. We'd lose money."

"I've been thinking, Norman, that we ought to materially increase our pickle output. Our Dandy Dills went across fine. Very fine, indeed. The wholesale houses expressed disappointment at the early depletion of our stock. Considering the matter, I've come to the conclusion that the somewhat extraordinary acceptance of our Dandy Dills is due, not so much to the manufacturing processes, but to the cucumbers, themselves. Our bottom land has produced exceptional sweet corn. And I'm wondering if it can't be made to further produce exceptional cucumbers in large quantities. That is, cucumbers of improved texture and flavor. You probably grasp my point. If we can greatly multiply our pickle business, which seems entirely feasible to me, we would be justified in taking over the Ashton plant."

"For pickles?"

"Exactly. It is something for us to think about."

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