“Get me an ax,” says I, rolling up my sleeves.
Poppy showed himself.
“There he is, Grandpop. That’s him. He’s the kid who started that Pickle Parlor in front of our office.”
The banker looked startled for a moment or two. Then his face darkened.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he thundered.
But it takes more than a rumble to scare Poppy.
“The meaning is,” says he, “that you’re an hour and fifteen minutes late. For having gone into the pickle business ourselves, and needing a big supply of cucumbers, we got here ahead of you and contracted for Mrs. O’Mally’s entire crop.”
The banker’s eyes were blazing now.
“Do you realize that you are directly interfering with a hundred-thousand-dollar corporation?”
Poof! A hundred thousand dollars wasn’t anything to excite Poppy.