“That isn’t impossible,” says Poppy, “but I’m not going to let myself believe it.”
By the time I got home there were things going on in my stomach that weren’t right. Nor did it help matters any when I tried to hold down the celebrating pickles with mashed potatoes and gravy.
Mother beamed at me across the supper table.
“Have some pickles,” says she generously.
“No!” I cried, with a shudder. Pickles! The last thing I wanted was more pickles.
“Why, Jerry! What’s the matter with you? You look white.”
Dad glanced up from his newspaper.
“Too much candy, I bet a cookie. You shouldn’t eat so much sweet stuff, Son,” he lectured. “You’re getting too big for that.” Then, what do you know if he didn’t shove a second dish of pickles at me! “Here, try something sour for a change. It’ll do your stomach good.”
Pickles! Suddenly I was caught in a whirl of pickles. Mixed pickles! Pear pickles! Apple pickles! Cucumber pickles! String-bean pickles! Peach pickles! Tomato pickles! They came at me with blood in their eyes. I tried to run. But I couldn’t get away from them. Biff! The cucumber pickles soaked me a sledge-hammer blow on the end of the snout, while at the same time the string-bean pickles lifted up the tail of my coat and performed with perfect aim. Again I tried to run, but they got in front of me and cut me off. When I fell they landed on top of me. I saw I was a goner. And then—
Sort of coming back to earth, as it were, I found Mother steadying me.