Not particularly interested at first in this long-winded business conversation, we had pricked up our ears at the mention of pickles. For that was stuff in our line! It was a sort of coincidence, I told myself, that we should overhear their pickle plans so soon after our decision to start up a Pickle Parlor. But I never dreamed that soon the two businesses, so to speak, would be kicking each other in the seat of the pants.
A sporty-looking roadster having pulled up in front of the bank, its owner, a boy of our age, now sauntered lordly-like into the lobby. Forrest Pennykorn is what I call a first-class snob. I never did get along with him at school, and probably never will, for the only way to keep peace with him is to toady to him, and that is something I won’t do with any kid, rich or poor.
Getting his eyes on us the snappily-dressed young millionaire brought out a scowl. For he has about as much love for us as we have for him.
“Some one must have left the back door open,” was his clever little slap at us, as he disappeared into his grandfather’s office. “Hi, Grandpop. Hi, Pop. Why don’t you turn on the electric fan? It’s hotter than an oven in here.”
“Not infrequently,” was the banker’s dry reply, “it is advisable to endure slight bodily discomforts in order to economize.”
“That’s all Greek to me. Say, Pop, can I have a ten-spot? I want to take a spin over to Ashton this afternoon.”
“Forrest, your grandfather and I have just been talking about you. And we both feel that you’re old enough to be of some help to me at the factory.”
“What?”
“The business will be yours some day. And you ought to begin now to—”
A gust of wind having blown the door wide open, it was now closed with a bang, staying latched this time. And not knowing how much longer we might be kept waiting, Poppy got up, sort of impatient-like, and went over to the cashier’s window.