“You know I have no other place to sell ’em.”
“That’s your lookout. If you didn’t want to have them to sell you shouldn’t have raised them.”
“The young smart aleck,” gritted Poppy, when the truck, with its small load, had disappeared in the direction of town. “He ought to have his mouth slapped for talking that way to an old lady.”
“I never knew before,” says I, sort of thoughtful-like, “that all Mrs. O’Mally got from the canning company for her cucumbers was a dollar a bushel. Why, after paying for the picking it’s a wonder to me that she makes any money at all.”
Poppy took in the length and breadth of the big cucumber patch.
“I wonder how many bushels of cucumbers she’ll have to sell this year.”
“Six-seven hundred probably.”
“Gee!” and his eyes were like stars. “Wouldn’t it be slick, Jerry, if we could buy the whole shooting match ... at two dollars a bushel?”
I gave a squeak.
“Us buy seven hundred bushels of cucumbers? You’re crazy.”