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

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

"After our marked success last summer with the new pickle line, I encouraged Mrs. O'Mally to increase her acreage this year. And the other day I talked with another farmer from down the river who has a big patch. He's feeling around for a market. So the prospects are that we'll quadruple our dill output this summer."

"Fine. Very fine. But don't pay too much, Norman. Have an eye to profits. The less we pay out the more satisfactory our profits will be. As a whole, this promises to be a very good year for us. And if we can clean up fifty thousand dollars we'll be in excellent shape to absorb the Ashton concern."

"And you really think we should cut the price on sweet corn?"

"Forrest? Oh, burning up gasoline mostly."

"You should put him to work in the factory. He should be learning the business. Idleness and extravagance are twin evils, Norman. And I cannot countenance either, much less in the habits of my only grandchild."

Not particularly interested at first in this long-winded business conversation, we had pricked up our ears at the mention of pickles. For that was stuff in our line! It was a sort of coincidence, I told myself, that we should overhear their pickle plans so soon after our decision to start up a Pickle Parlor. But I never dreamed that soon the two businesses, so to speak, would be kicking each other in the seat of the pants.

A sporty-looking roadster having pulled up in front of the bank, its owner, a boy of our age, now sauntered lordly-like into the lobby. Forrest Pennykorn is what I call a first-class snob. I never did get along with him at school, and probably never will, for the only way to keep peace with him is to toady to him, and that is something I won't do with any kid, rich or poor.

Getting his eyes on us the snappily-dressed young millionaire brought out a scowl. For he has about as much love for us as we have for him.

"Some one must have left the back door open," was his clever little slap at us, as he disappeared into his grandfather's office. "Hi, Grandpop. Hi, Pop. Why don't you turn on the electric fan? It's hotter than an oven in here."

"Not infrequently," was the banker's dry reply, "it is advisable to endure slight bodily discomforts in order to economize."

"That's all Greek to me. Say, Pop, can I have a ten-spot? I want to take a spin over to Ashton this afternoon."

"Forrest, your grandfather and I have just been talking about you. And we both feel that you're old enough to be of some help to me at the factory."

"The business will be yours some day. And you ought to begin now to--"

A gust of wind having blown the door wide open, it was now closed with a bang, staying latched this time. And not knowing how much longer we might be kept waiting, Poppy got up, sort of impatient-like, and went over to the cashier's window.

"We're interested in Mr. Pennykorn's empty store building near the Lattimer meat market. Can you tell us what it rents for?"

"One hundred and twenty-five a month," snapped the cashier, a bit peeved, I guess, that we hadn't taken up the business with him in the first place.

The man nodded curtly, after which the president and general manager of Tutter's leading Pickle Parlor gave a sort of wilted laugh.

"I guess, Mr. Blynn, that's too steep for us."

A stoop-shouldered old man had come into the bank. And I noticed now that he was standing where he could listen. His face looked peculiarly familiar to me. But for the life of me I couldn't place him at the moment.

"Are you planning on starting up a store?" the cashier thawed out under the warmth of his own curiosity.

"A Pickle Parlor," says Poppy, who felt, I guess, that the sooner he started advertising the new business the better.

"A Pickle Parlor."

"What in the name of common sense is a Pickle Parlor?"

"What is an ice-cream parlor?" countered Poppy.

"A place where you buy ice cream."

"Naturally. So a Pickle Parlor is a place where you buy pickles."

"I never heard of such a thing."

"I rather imagine," came modestly from the genius of Tutter's new enterprise, "that our Pickle Parlor will be the first of its kind in the United States. When completely organized it is our plan to sell all kinds of quality pickles--apple pickles, beet pickles and various mixtures. But at the start we will specialize in cucumber pickles. I hope you will give us a trial, Mr. Blynn. Pickles is pickles for the most part, but you'll always get preferred pickles when you deal with us. Even your wife, excellent cook as she no doubt is, will be unable to make better pickles than ours. And to serve with those tasty party sandwiches, which mean so much to an experienced hostess, who would want to use any pickle except the perfect pickles that are the fame of Poppy's Pickle Parlor? As a matter of fact, we expect to get a corner on the whole pickle business of the town. And later on we may branch out and sprinkle a chain of Pickle Parlors all over the state."

"I swan!" the cashier stared. "I swan!"

A jeering laugh followed us out of the bank, for young Pennykorn had come out of his grandfather's office in time to overhear Poppy's pickle oration.

"Well," I grinned at my chum, when we were in the street, "we're getting a lot of that 'laughed-at' recognition that you talked about. So you ought to be happy."

"A Pickle Parlor!" smarty hooted after us from the door of his grandfather's bank. "A Pickle Parlor! Haw! haw! haw!"

"Jerry," came solemnly, "do you know what I wish?"

"That you could coax him into an alley and punch his face?"

"Oh, no! I wish I could make him come into our store and beg us to sell him some of our pickles."

"Which reminds me," says I, "that you haven't told me yet where you're going to get these wonderful pickles."

"That," says he, with a thoughtful look, "is still a puzzle to me."

OUR "SILENT" PARTNER

"Our business career was kind of short and snappy," I told Poppy, when we had turned a corner out of sight of the Canners Exchange Bank where our enemy, Forrest Pennykorn, had just given us the horselaugh.

"How do you get that 'was' stuff?" says he. "We really haven't got started yet."

"What?" I squeaked, as we ran into a jam of people in front of the Parker grocery where a sale was going on. "Haven't you given up that scheme?"

There was a crash of glass on the concrete sidewalk.

"My pickles!" cried one of the shoppers, glaring at poor Poppy as though she was mad enough to snatch him bald-headed. "Stupid! Why don't you watch where you're going?"

The offender, of course, had an apology a mile long. Then, in his quick-minded way, he got down on his knees and began fingering the pickled cucumbers as they lay in a puddle of juice on the sidewalk, acting for all the world as though he were conducting a pickle post-mortem, or whatever you call it.

Well, say! I never felt so foolish in all my life. Poppy is all right. He is a smart kid, in fact. And no doubt this new scheme of his was water tight. But it struck me that he was spreading the gab too promiscuously. Enough people would laugh at us, I figured, without him making a monkey of himself in public.

"The first thing you know," I hinted, when we had escaped from the laughing crowd that had gathered around us as a result of the free show, "they'll be locking you up in a padded cell."

"What's the matter, Jerry?" he grinned, in perfect contentment with himself. "Don't you like my lingo?"

"You can't keep it up," I told him, "and get away with it."

"It's good advertising," he modestly bragged on himself.

"But what's the use," says I, "of letting on that we have a Pickle Parlor when we haven't?"

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