“But I want all you’ve got,” insisted the important acting truck driver.
“I’m sorry. But the other two b’ys was ahead of ye.”
“Who do you mean?—that Ott kid and young Todd?”
“Yes. They bought them four baskets an’ paid me for ’em.”
Smarty gave a mean laugh.
“Some more of their ‘Pickle Parlor’ stuff, I suppose. A bunch of junk. Them run a business and get away with it? Say, they couldn’t draw a picture of a straight line and do a good job of it. Let me tell you something, old lady: you’re crazy to sell pickles to kids like them when you’ve got a big responsible company like ours to deal with. For when we buy we buy big.”
“Yes,” the pickle woman gave the bragger a dig, “an’ at half the price that other people pay me.”
“A dollar a bushel is a good price.”
“You wouldn’t think so if ye had to pick ’em. Look at me ould back. ’Tis bent like the twisted willows that ye see on the river bank.”
Smarty made himself as important acting as he could.