“Were we ever dumb,” says he, “not to have suspected it? And him going with her, too! Drill a hole in my thick skull, Jerry: my brains need ventilating.”
In answer to our questions, Mrs. O’Mally admitted to us at the breakfast table that she had sent some of her pickles to the food sale. She also had given several jars, she said, to “a friend.” We knew, of course, who the “friend” was! Feeling that she was too poor to subscribe to the Tutter newspaper, she thus had missed seeing our ad.
Starting in at the beginning, we handed her the whole story, which amused her one minute and amazed her the next. But when we asked her, in the wind-up, to do the pickle-making stunt for us, she almost fainted.
“Me pickle seven hundred bushels of cucumbers? Mither of Moses! Is it the work of ten women that ye think I can do?”
“All right,” Poppy quickly followed up. “We’ll go at it that way, then. You’ll be the boss. See? And the other women will do the work.”
“No, no!”
“But, Mrs. O’Mally,” old do-or-die hung on, “if you don’t help us, we won’t be able to pay you for the cucumbers. Besides, think of what it will mean to you if the pickles turn out to be a big success. We’ll be able to start up a pickle factory. That will make you rich. For, of course, you’ll be one of the owners.”
“Sure,” came dizzily, “’tis nothin’ I hear but talk of riches. First it was the pirate’s treasure; an’ now it’s pickles.”
“Besides,” Poppy galloped along, “think how lovely it will be to beat old Pennykorn at his own game, who probably is waiting for you right now with that ninety-cent contract.”
The pickle woman’s face hardened.