This high finance, or whatever you call it, was almost too much for me.
“Poppy,” says I, sort of anxious-like, “aren’t we getting in gosh-awful deep?”
“The deeper the better,” says he. “For then we can high-dive in perfect safety.”
“We may ‘high-dive,’” says I, “and never come up.”
But he was too bubbly inside to be troubled by me.
“Now,” says he, starting off down the street, “let’s see what the Ladies’ Aid has got to say.”
“By the way,” says I, keeping pace with him, “are we still going to use that ‘Aunt Jemima’ name?”
“No,” he shook his head. “‘Aunt Jemima’ took too hard a flop ever to get her wind back. So far as we are concerned the old lady is dead and buried.”
“‘Poppy’s Pickles,’” I showed my stuff. “That’s a good name.”
“Jerry, did you ever hear of pedigreed cows?”