“Jerry, after eating those swell cucumber pickles at his house—and I know they’re the same kind of pickles that I bought at the food sale—it’ll forever be a puzzle to me how he slopped over on the last batch.”
“I hope,” says I uneasily, “that you aren’t thinking of giving him a second trial.”
“Hardly.” Then he swatted me with a pillow. “Get up, you lazy bum. Here I am all dressed and you haven’t even untangled yourself from the feather tick.”
“Wait a minute,” I motioned him away. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Spill it.”
“How would it be,” I suggested thoughtfully, “if we got Mrs. O’Mally to do the pickle making for us? Mother was raving about her pickles last night. So they must be all right.”
“By George!” came the applause. “I wonder if we can’t? Of course,” he added, with less enthusiasm, “they won’t be the wonder pickles. We can’t expect that. But other dealers sell big wads of ordinary pickles. So, with fairly good luck, we ought to be able to flag an order now and then.”
“Shall we call her in and ask her?” says I eagerly, feeling pretty hefty over the fact that little Y. T. (meaning Yours Truly) had made the important suggestion. Oh, I’m there, all right ... once or twice a year, at least!
“Just a minute,” says Poppy. Then, having slipped out of the room, I heard him stumble over a chair in the empty kitchen. By hurrying, I was well ornamented with clothes by the time he got back. “Before saying anything to her,” he laughed, “I thought we’d better sample her pickles on the sly. For it’s a cinch we don’t want to make another crazy blunder.” Then he shoved a cucumber at me. “Try it,” says he, cheerfully, “and see what you think of it.”
I loved that pickle about as much as you love cod-liver oil.