“Write her out a check,” I made a big gesture. “We still have thirty-two dollars in the bank.”
He sort of squeezed my arm.
“Jerry,” says he, “you’re a little brick. I really didn’t think you’d take it so—so cheerful-like. In fact, considering how I had jumped into it without telling you, I thought you’d be a little bit sore. And I was all ready to have you pounce on me and call me a dumb-bell.”
Lots of times we slam-bang the “dumb-bell” stuff at each other in fun, as I have written down. But to call that kid a dumb-bell in earnest would be like telling a lily to go out in the kitchen and wash its face. No, sir, a dumb-bell was one thing he wasn’t. Ambition was what had tripped him up. His ideas were too big for his shoes. So, in a way, it isn’t to be wondered at that he had taken a flop. Of course, as his partner, he should have gotten my advice before ordering the cucumbers. But I wasn’t going to crab at him on that point. For he always took the lead, anyway. And any scheme to save us would come out of his head, not mine.
Having passed into the well-kept yard, I took a squint out back, expecting to see a young cucumber mountain. But nothing of that kind was in sight. Nor were the pickers at work, this being Sunday.
A few chickens ran out to meet us, as though expecting to be fed, and at the side porch a big cat jumped out of a chair. Rapping on the screen door, we heard footsteps. Presently Mrs. O’Mally came into sight.
“Come in,” she invited, holding the door open. In the careful housekeeping way that many women have, she brushed out a fly or two with her apron. “I was wonderin’,” she added, looking at us warmly, “if ye wouldn’t be out to-day to see your cucumbers. ’Tis a whole cellar full that I have for ye. Come! I’ll show ’em to ye.”
“There’s no hurry,” says Poppy, noticing that the woman had gotten up from the dinner table. “We’ll just sit down and wait till you’re through eating.”
There’s something particularly fine about Mrs. O’Mally. Like Mother. When you’re around her you sort of have the feeling that she likes you and wants you to know about it. Of course, she probably doesn’t like everybody. But I know that she likes me! So I wasn’t surprised when she warmly insisted on us sitting up to the table and eating dinner with her. Nor did we refuse. For that wouldn’t have been polite.
“Sure,” she bustled around, getting more stuff out of the kettles on the stove, “’tis a much finer dinner I would have had for ye could I have known ahead of time that ye would be likely to drop in on me at this particular hour. But if ye have to skimp on the taters ye can have your fill of bread an’ jam. Then, too, ’tis a fine three-layer cake I have in the pantry. An’ pickles! Sure, I can give ye plenty of them. An’ all fresh made, too.”