“Like almost everything else,” says he, as solemn and wise as an old owl, “there’s a big difference in pickles.”
“Yah,” says I, “some are sweet and some are sour.”
“I mean,” says he, “that of pickles of a kind some are much better than others. Take your own mother’s pickles for example. You must have noticed that they’ve got a better taste than boughten pickles. And that largely explains why a great many women prefer to make their own pickles. They want better pickles than they can buy. So how easy for us to build up our new business if we get the right kind of pickles to sell!”
I gave him a sad look.
“Poppy,” I sighed, “you’re too much for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“As long as you’re a boy,” I advised, as a further effort to pull him down to earth, “why don’t you be a boy? This Peanut Parlor stuff is out of your line, kid.”
“I didn’t say anything about a Peanut Parlor.”
“Well, a Pickle Parlor is just as crazy. You can’t make it work. For pickles are groceries. And the place to buy them is in a grocery store.”
“Jerry, if you wanted to buy a good cheap stove poker, what store would you go to?”