“Ah!...” The pickle woman’s voice had a stiffer tone. “Then ye think I’m gettin’ rich too fast at a dollar a bushel.”
“Here is the situation, Mrs. O’Mally: On one hand we have what promises to be an over-supply of green cucumbers, which, of course, is your problem. On the other hand an unwise over-supply of high-priced pickles would be our problem. So, as I see it, the thing for us to do, to your best interests and to ours, is to get together on a price that will enable us to buy your whole crop, to save you loss from waste, and also without risk to ourselves. We can do it in one of two ways: The first four hundred bushels will be priced at a dollar a bushel, as this will be the cream of the picking, the next hundred bushels at ninety cents, and the balance at seventy cents, which will give you, net, six hundred and thirty dollars for the total estimated crop of seven hundred bushels, or an average of—ah—ninety cents a bushel. That is one plan, as I say. The other plan would be to pay ninety cents straight, in which case we would agree to take all you have, even if the crop runs as high as eight hundred or even nine hundred bushels. I trust I am not confusing you with these figures.”
“Oh, I know what ye mean, all right,” came bluntly. “You’re tryin’ to get me cucumbers for ninety cents a bushel.”
“Everything considered,” the oily voice went on, “that is, I am sure, a very fair price. As I say, it protects you from possible loss through waste, and it protects us in case we have to cut our price to the jobber on account of unwise over-production. The question is, will you be willing to accept ninety cents a bushel, with the understanding, of course, that we will absorb your entire crop? Or will you want to look around for another possible market? We have no strings on you, Mrs. O’Mally, and if you can sell your crop elsewhere, for more money than we can afford to pay you, that is your privilege. As a matter of fact, with your best interests at heart, I wouldn’t want to see you lose a penny on our account. It is our misfortune, seemingly, that we can pay you no more, much as we would like to do so. But, as our pickle business is in its infancy, as I have mentioned, we must be properly conservative.”
Poppy and I hadn’t missed a single word of the old geezer’s gab. He sure had a slick line, all right. But he didn’t fool us for one minute.
“What do you think of him, Jerry?” a whisper came in my ear.
“He’s an old liar.”
“Doesn’t it surprise you?”
“I’d like to surprise him,” I gritted, as Mrs. O’Mally’s friend.
“I guess he’d be surprised, all right,” came the grinning reply, “if he knew we were listening.”