“I was in the bank when you were there and overheard you inquiring about Pennykorn’s empty building. Humph! If you would accept my advice don’t rent from that man if you can possibly help it. Too grasping; too grasping,” and the shaggy gray head waggled sharply in conclusion.
“I guess,” laughed Poppy, “there’s no danger of us renting any building for one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month.” Liking cats he got down on his knees. “Hello, Peter,” he held out his hand. “Remember me, old boy?”
As though it did remember him, the cat came over and rubbed against him.
“Up, Peter,” commanded the old man, pleased at the interest shown in his pet. “Show the boys what you can do. Up, I say,” and the cat sat up as pretty as you please.
“You old tyke,” says Poppy, affectionately petting the yellow head.
“He hasn’t forgotten,” says Mr. Weckler, “how you fished him out of that dry cistern and bandaged his foot.”
“I see it’s all well again.”
“A trifle stiff in the joint, but otherwise as good as ever.... How big a place do you figure you need for this Pickle Parlor of yours?”
“I imagine we ought to start up in a small way,” says Poppy thoughtfully. “For the chances are we won’t have much of a stock at first. In fact,” came the laughing admission, “after supplying you people we have only seven pickles left. Nor do we know yet where more of the same kind are coming from.”
Mrs. Clayton laughed when she heard about the unknown pickle genius. Then, at the old man’s invitation, we followed him into the back yard, where, almost hidden in a thicket of neglected apple trees, we were shown a small house on the order of a child’s playhouse, but made full height, which we were told we could use for a store if it were big enough for us.