“Using the three words, all beginning with ‘P,’ is what is called alliteration. You see a lot of it in advertising. In fact,” he admitted, “that’s where I got my idea.”
Getting the measurements of our new store, which proved to be six feet wide by eight feet long, we made a diagram, or, as Poppy called it, a floor plan, a copy of which is printed on the opposite page. You may wonder where we expected to pick off a cash register. As a matter of fact, we didn’t expect to own a cash register for a long time. But a floor plan, to use the leader’s words, was intended to show everything complete. And that is why we put the cash register in ahead of time, along with the two prospective pickle barrels.
“Before we go any farther,” says Poppy, “I think we better check up and see how we stand on the money question. For it will take a good bit of jack to pay for the paint and shelf lumber. Then, too, we’ll have to hire a house mover.”
“It won’t cost much,” I grinned, “to move this house.”
“Probably not. But we won’t get the job done for nothing. How about putting in fifty dollars apiece?”
That was all right with me, I agreed. Then, as the lodge saying is, we adjourned, stretching our legs in the direction of home, having been reminded by the one o’clock factory whistles that we hadn’t had dinner yet. Later we met in Mr. Thomas Lorring’s bank where we opened a hundred-dollar checking account in the name of Poppy’s Pickle Parlor, after which we ordered our lumber and paint, not forgetting to put an ad in the Tutter Daily Globe.
Mr. Lorring, you will remember, was the banker who helped us start up our stilt factory, out of which we made several hundred dollars. He sure used us fine. And that is why we went back to him.
Poppy is a regular little gee whizz when it comes to sawing and fitting. Boy, you should have seen the way those shelves danced into place! I ran a race with him, slinging yellow and green paint right and left, but he beat me by a mile. Still, if I could have added to the paint that I put on the store what I got on the old overalls that Mr. Weckler had so wisely provided, I guess the race would have been a tie.
Throughout our afternoon’s work the old man pottered here and there, silently taking in everything with a critical, interested eye. Mrs. Clayton, too, came out to see how we were getting along, bringing a big pitcher of lemonade. Um-yum! The best lemonade I ever tasted. Having lapped up two or three quarts, more or less, my painting speed increased thirty-eight strokes to the minute.