“They would if they got a chance.”
“But suppose I make it my business, as your older friend, to see that they never get such a chance—though, to that point, I haven’t much doubt of their honesty.”
“What do you mean?” says Poppy, more quietly.
“Here’s the proposition that Mr. Pennykorn asked me to put before you: They want to organize a separate pickle branch. As you know, they talked of buying a plant in Ashton. But the local Chamber of Commerce has talked them out of that notion. And they have agreed to build the proposed new plant here if they can immediately take over your cucumber stock and further get exclusive manufacturing rights on your ‘Pedigreed Pickles,’ as a companion line to their ‘Dandy Dills.’ The new company, to call it that, will be capitalized at one hundred thousand dollars, and common stock, having a par value of one hundred dollars a share, will be issued in the amount of sixty thousand dollars, the balance of the stock to be held in reserve, as is quite proper. Of the six hundred issued shares, you boys will be given fifty shares apiece; Mrs. O’Mally the same. If the stock earns ten per cent, each one’s share of the yearly earnings will be five hundred dollars. Also there is the possibility of greater earnings, which would materially increase the value of the stock. Personally, I think it is a very fair proposition. And my advice would be for you to accept it. Nor need you have any uncertainty over your position as minority stock holders. I’ll see that you are properly taken care of.”
It was then further pointed out to us how much better the established company could serve the town than us. So we finally told Mr. Lorring that we would do whatever he thought was best. In due time the promised stock was delivered, after which, of course, the Pennykorns were as nice as pie to us. I suppose it was best for us to bury the hatchet. But, to this day, I still feel sort of queer when I’m around them. I’ll never forget that exciting night in the bank. I guess they never will, either. I don’t see how they could.
Having come to a settlement with the canning company, the public announcement was then made that ground would soon be broken for a separate new pickle factory. And in celebration the Chamber of Commerce got up a swell supper, to which all of the surrounding farmers were invited. The word got out, too, that the canning company was going to issue new contracts, under which they would agree to pay the farmers the highest market prices for their stuff. That, of course, made everybody happy. So it was a lively bunch that turned out to the big feed, with the Tutter band doing the tooting stuff and the big hall all dolled up in fancy paper streamers. Poppy and I were there, for they couldn’t very well leave us out. And I guess it was Mr. Lorring’s doings that we got places at the head table, where the big basket of artificial fruit was. Boy, oh, boy, did we ever light into that grub! Then, at the invitation of the master of ceremonies, or whatever you call him, several prominent business men made short speeches about “the most progressive little city in the middle west,” after which came a long-winded introduction.
“And so,” the master of ceremonies wound up, “it is my great pleasure, fellow boosters, to introduce one of the guests of honor, who, young as he is, has literally swept the nation off its feet. Seven-League Stilts! We all know who invented them. We know, too, who’s responsible for this clever ‘Pedigreed Pickles’ idea.... Let’s have a few words from Poppy Ott.”
Gee-miny Christmas! Poppy and I almost fainted. Guests of honor! We were it and never had suspected it! Finally, though, I got some of my senses back.
“Get up,” I kicked old dumb-bell under the table. “They’re calling on you.”
Well, he got up—though it took him a long time to do it. He was kind of white, too, like the time he ate the green apples. And, oh, gee, how proud I was of him! My pal! The bulliest pal in the whole world! A few months ago he was a tramp. And now see him. Good old Poppy!