“Pickles are assets in this case. The point is, Jerry, that we have a stock of pickles worth eighteen hundred dollars. Our debts are around five hundred dollars. So we aren’t in such terribly bad shape as you imagine. If necessary, we’ll carry samples of our pickles direct to the retail trade, so that the grocers will see exactly what they’re buying. It will take longer to sell our stock that way. But I think we can do it. And later on—”
“What then?” says I, when he paused, with a sort of hard look on his face.
“It’s a long lane, Jerry,” says he, thinking of the crooked Pennykorn bunch, “that hasn’t a turn.”
I wasn’t so perked up by this encouraging talk as you might imagine. And when Poppy filled a a suit case with samples and went away that afternoon on a selling trip, I felt like a deserted sailor on a sinking ship. I knew now why an old dog, in dying, always tried to crawl off into some dark corner. Death being a sort of disgrace, it wanted to get out of its master’s sight. So did I! And to think that only a few hours ago I had patted myself on the back. Oh, gee! If we never had gotten into this awful mess. How crazy we had been to think that we could buck a hundred-thousand-dollar corporation.
ONE OLD LADY WAS HORRIFIED THINKING THEY WERE BEER KEGS.
Poppy Ott’s Pedigreed Pickles. Page [205]
Tom, as I say, was running the store, which, with steadily increasing business, was picking up several dollars a day. And out in the country Uncle Abner was still bossing the pickers, who seemingly were working harder than ever. The Methodist ladies, I noticed, were beginning to lose their enthusiasm. Then, to completely knock the props out from under me, a strange farmer pulled up to the church with a huge wagonload of cucumbers. He was glad to know that we were paying two dollars a bushel, he sort of beamed at me. And he had decided to let us have his entire crop, of which two more wagon-loads were now on the way to town.
“No!” I cried, getting my voice. “Take them over to the canning factory. We don’t want them.”
“Look here, young feller,” he began to bristle, “you kain’t go back on your word that way.”
“What?” I squeaked, going cold. “Did Poppy order cucumbers from you, too?”