Did you ever notice how crazy some people are to get something for nothing? A free show always gets a big hand no matter how punk it is. And however much some women may hate cornflakes, if a tiny package of breakfast food is tossed on their front porch it’s dearer to them than gold. Zip! Out they come to grab the sample almost before it stops rolling. I found this out one time when Red Meyers and I tagged a sample peddler around with the clever little scheme in mind of snitching his stuff behind his back. But we didn’t get very much. For the women for the most part were too quick for us.
To make sure of my own samples, I waited, after knocking, until the woman of the house came to the door. Then, giving her the pickles, together with a handbill, I politely recited my little speech, as I had memorized it ahead of time. Nor was there any frisky broom-swatting stuff this trip. As a matter of fact, I think Mrs. Bagley was very sorry for having swatted me. For she saw now that I was a young business man. And there is a big difference, you know, between swatting an ordinary kid over the head and a young business man.
I missed Poppy’s help. For our store had to be moved. And it had been his intention to sort of boss the moving job while I dished out the samples. As it was, I had both jobs to do.
Running home at six o’clock, as hungry as a bear, I found a note from Mother telling me that she and Dad had gone over to the Methodist church to a chicken-pie supper. Chicken pie! Um-yum! What I wouldn’t do to that chicken pie, I told myself, pocketing the four bits that they had left for me. But eager as I was to wrap myself around a nice hunk of white meat smothered in gravy, I had the good manners to stop and wash up. I put on a clean shirt, too. For it wasn’t to be forgotten that I was now in business for myself.
It sure was a swell supper. But an old lady who had to listen through a tin pan almost spoiled the feed for me by passing me pickles. And, worse, they were greasy stuffed olives. Oof! Instead of taking one I asked her to please park the dish under the table.
I was up bright and early the following morning, having arranged with old Butch to do the store moving before the other people were out of bed. Hearing us in his yard, Mr. Weckler got up to help. But there wasn’t much that he and I could do except to look on. For the moving job, as Butch went at it with his wheels and other truck, was no trick at all. At six-thirty our store was properly set down, close to the sidewalk, in the vacant lot across the street from the cannery.
People who worked in the factory stopped on their way past to rubber at us. And I heard a lot of laughing talk back and forth about the new “Pickle Parlor.” Then who should roll up to the curb in a truck but little cutie, himself.
“You’ve got your nerve,” he lit into me, “moving this junk into our parking lot.”
“Your lot?” says I, going ahead with my work of arranging pickle jars on the shelves. “How do you get that way? This is Mr. Weckler’s lot.”
“Well, even so, we’ve got a better right to it than you.”