“Of course,” he nodded thoughtfully, “we couldn’t sell that many pickles in Tutter. I realize that. But why couldn’t we do business in other towns?”
“If you don’t shut up,” I told him weakly, “I’ll die of heart failure. Us handle seven hundred bushels of cucumbers? Good night nurse! Old Butch couldn’t can seven hundred bushels of cucumbers in seven years.”
Having borrowed a pair of big-waisted trousers from the scarecrow in Mrs. O’Mally’s strawberry patch, I put on a clever little “Charlie Chaplin” program going home. I thought I was rather funny myself. But from Poppy I got about as much attention as a goldfish in a crowded menagerie. I suppose, though, had I been a cute little cucumber it would have gotten a loving smack on the forehead.
Cucumbers! That’s where his mind was, all right. He was completely and hopelessly buried in cucumbers.
That night after supper my chum and I borrowed Dad’s auto and drove into the country, getting our first load of cucumbers. As it had been decided to establish our pickling headquarters at Poppy’s house, the cucumbers were taken there. And the next morning the pickling began.
But before we let old Butch touch the cucumbers we led him over to the kitchen sink and introduced him to the soap dish and a basin of water. Poppy washed first, to show how it was done; then me; after which, of course, the pickle expert had to follow suit. But he didn’t like it for two cents.
“I swan!” he grumbled. “Anyone would think from all the pernickety washin’ an’ wipin’ that’s goin’ on that we were gittin’ ready to give a swell party. Don’t you know that if a feller’s hands is dirty he’ll git ’em washed clean when he messes ’round in the pickles? So what’s the use of goin’ to all this extra trouble?”
“But you aren’t so liable to get chapped hands,” says Poppy, like the tactful little piece of cheese that he is, “if you wash in warm water.”
The pickle maker gave a snort.
“Chapped hands in the summer time! I swan! You’ll be tellin’ me next to wear woolen socks to keep from gittin’ the chilblains.”