“The ould skin-flint,” says Mrs. O’Mally, watching the banker with unfriendly eyes as he got out of the car and started stiffly toward the house. “He has let me pile up cucumbers all week, thinkin’ that he could come here to-day an’ Jew me down. I know him. But thank the good Lord this is one time when I’m safe from his clutches—graspin’ ould miser that he is!”
CHAPTER XIII
THE BANKER’S THREATS
Mrs. O’Mally got all ready to go to the door, expecting to hear the visitor knock. But instead, after a searching glance at the house, which made us think that he was wishing in his grasping way that he could chuck it into his pocket and make off with it, as another one of his possessions, he continued his stiff-legged walk in the direction of the big cucumber patch.
Rubbering through the kitchen window, we saw him go the full length of the patch on one path and back on another, stopping every few steps to poke around among the green vines with a stick. Once he picked a cucumber and bit into it. Evidently it suited him, for we could see him nod his head. His curiosity satisfied at the patch, he stopped at the car on his return to say a few words to his cute little grandson, who was half asleep in the comfortable seat, after which he came on to the house, rapping authoritatively at the front door.
Poppy and I, of course, kept out of sight. For the banker’s business with Mrs. O’Mally wasn’t our business. So the admitted visitor didn’t know that we were in the same house with him.
“I have been out back inspecting your cucumber patch, Mrs. O’Mally,” the conversation began, and while the speaker was seated out of our sight we could imagine from the tone of his voice how very dignified he looked. This was a trick of his, of course, wealthy man that he was, to make Mrs. O’Mally feel sort of insignificant. “The patch seems somewhat larger to me this year.”
“I added two acres.”
“The same seed, I judge.”
“Yes, sor.”
“You are having unusually good luck with cucumbers, Mrs. O’Mally.”