“I suppose,” says he, when I was seated, “that you’re wondering why I sent for you.”
I nodded. I guess I was pretty stiff about it, too. For I couldn’t forget about that crooked letter.
“The—ah—point is,” he got down to business, “we have a market for cucumber pickles, but no new stock, largely due, of course, to your interference. On the other hand, as I understand the situation, you have a sizable stock but no market. So it would seem to me, putting aside all past differences that the thing for us to do is to get together in a friendly way. And here is my proposition: We will take over your entire pickle stock, assume all your debts, reimburse you for the money that you have paid out of your own pockets, absorb all your ordered raw stock, and, in addition, as an indication of our good faith, write a personal check for you in the amount of two hundred dollars—this, of course, in the event that the plan meets with your approval.”
Oh, boy, what a relief! Now we could get out from under, as the saying is, without losing a penny. Better, still, we’d be two hundred dollars to the good. Crooked as he had been with us, I was willing to forgive him.
“I’ll have to get Poppy on long distance,” says I, when he brought out a contract for me to sign.
“Not necessarily,” says he in that nice pussy-cat way.
“But we’re partners.”
“Your separate signature is binding.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t want to sign,” I held off, “unless Poppy knows about it.”