The newspapers all over the state made a big thing of the recovered treasure. And a reporter with shell-rimmed glasses and spats came all the way from Chicago to take pictures. I felt pretty big when I saw my picture in the newspaper. Right beside old Peg-leg, too—only, of course, his picture was made up. And what a picture it was! But the newspaper story got little attention from Poppy. Pedigreed Pickles was still the big thing in his mind. For he had the job now of getting organized for still heavier production.
I might say in that connection that the Methodist ladies perked up somewhat when we gave them a check for one hundred and eighty dollars, which paid them for the work they had done to date. Still, though they were willing to go on, we felt that we had more cucumbers than they could handle. And not wanting to be partial, just because we were Methodists, we gave the Presbyterian ladies a chance to pull a few nails out of their church debt. Then we put the Catholic ladies to work. Pickles, pickles, pickles! The town was flooded with pickles. We shipped them out right and left. And how grand and glorious was the feeling when the little old checks began to roll in.
We went after the cat killer, too. But before I write down that part, let me tell you about the banquet that the Chamber of Commerce put on. Gee! That was one time, I guess, when old Poppy was completely knocked off his pins. Every time I think of the “speech” he made that night I laugh myself sick.
CHAPTER XXII
GUESTS OF HONOR
One morning shortly after the recovery of the treasure Mr. Lorring called us into the bank.
“The first thing you young whippersnappers know,” he lit into us in his booming way, “you’re going to have a damage suit on your hands.”
“What’s wrong?” says Poppy, kind of anxious-like, his thoughts, of course, turning instantly to the canning company.
“WHAT’S WRONG!” came the increased thunder. “Look at me! I’m wasting away. In one week I’ve dropped from two-eighty to two-seventy-seven.”
We were grinning now. For we saw that he wasn’t really huffy. He was just pretending.
“It’s your confounded pickles,” he went on. “They’re interfering with my domestic affairs. In the morning my wife is in such a hurry to get over to the church that she doesn’t half prepare breakfast. She’s never home at noon. And at night the cry is that she’s ‘too tired to cook.’ To a man who loves victuals, as I do, this is a hardship. And I’ve made up my mind to protest.”