The banker cleared his throat.
“They are unproven pickles,” he spoke up. “So it would be—ah—absurd to give them a high valuation.”
“If you’re in doubt about them,” came the shot, “why do you want them?”
The banker colored.
“It’s awfully hot in here,” Poppy mopped his face with his handkerchief. Then he got up and opened a window, through which we could hear the evening traffic in Main Street. “There,” he drew a deep breath, “that’s better.”
Smarty was glaring.
“You’ve got your nerve.”
“Sit down and shut up,” says Poppy, “before I shut you up.” Then he wheeled and faced the banker. “It’s plain to me now why you wrote that lying letter about us. It was a scheme to tie up our stock. And now you think you can buy our pickles at your own terms.”
The banker’s face hardened.
“You had better curb your tongue, young man.”