I stared at him.
“Good night! Under the circumstances I think we’re lucky to get that.”
“The pickles are worth eighteen hundred dollars.”
“To them—yes. But not to us.”
“Evidently,” mused Poppy, “the old geezer must want our pickles pretty badly to come chasing after us.”
“I think he’s very generous,” says I.
“Don’t be simple, Jerry. He hates us like a cat hates vinegar. And much less than wanting to do us a good turn, as you think, he’d squeeze us to the wall in a minute, if he got the chance.”
The sweat began to stream down my face as I saw ruin ahead.
“Poppy, let me ask a favor of you.”
“Shoot.”