As we had to have pickles before we could open up our business, it was of more importance, Poppy said, to find out who the lucky pickle maker was than to finish painting our store, so, after a hurried trip to Mr. Weckler’s house, to see if the paint was drying, we headed for 616 Elm Street to interview the first one of the six women who had written to us.
Mrs. Morgan was very eager to let us into her house when she found out that we had her letter. But she got rid of us in a hurry when she learned the truth about the “diamonds.” I couldn’t see, though, what right she had to get out of patience with us and accuse us of trickery. But that just goes to show how unreasonable some people can be.
Our next stop was at Mrs. Hempline’s house, where we were given much better treatment. Yes, was the cheerful, even eager admission, she had contributed pickles to the food sale. But we found on sampling her pickles that we were in the wrong house.
“Gosh!” says I, when we hit the street. “Did you see the look on her face when we backed out of the house? I bet anything she thinks we’re cuckoo.”
“How could she think different,” grinned Poppy, “with you along?”
The balance of our calls were no more successful than the first two. Of the six women, three had contributed pickles to the food sale. But the pickles that we sampled weren’t the pickles that we were looking for. In fact, at one house the pickles were no good at all. They tasted to me as though they had been put up in dish water.
“Hey!” a kid called to us across the street. “Mr. Stair wants to see you.”
Hurrying to the newspaper office, we were given fourteen more letters and a telegram.
“Evidently,” grinned the editor, “there’s a lot of people hereabouts who want to wear diamonds.” Then he looked at us curiously. “By the way,” he inquired, “what was it that you found in the pickles?”
“An idea,” says Poppy.