“’Tis not so much luck, sor, as patience an’ hard work.”
“The vines, I noticed, are set full, with every prospect of a heavy yield.”
“With no bad luck from the weather, I expect to pick at least seven hundred bushels.”
“Seven hundred bushels!” The man made it sound like an ocean full. “How many bushels was it that we bought from you last season?”
“Four hundred an’ fifteen.”
“An increase of almost three hundred bushels!” There was a short silence. “I’m wondering, Mrs. O’Mally,” then came thoughtfully, “if our factory will be able to handle your entire crop. For you realize, of course, that our pickle line is somewhat of an experiment. And hence, at the start, it would be rash for us to go into it too heavily.”
“I was told, sor, that your new pickle line was a big success.”
“Of course; of course. We have nothing to complain of. But, still, we are not established in that branch. Far from it. So we must proceed with proper business caution.”
“Which, I take it, is to the p’int that ye hain’t wantin’ me whole crop.”
“I—ah—would want to confer with my son, Mrs. O’Mally, before definitely committing myself. Still, it is not improbable that Norman will be able to shape his production plans so as to absorb your entire crop of seven hundred bushels or thereabouts, providing, of course, that the price is right.”