Poppy Ott's pedigreed pickles

To this day Poppy tells the crazy story that I screeched so loud that I rocked the furniture. And the wonder is, he further kids me, that the pipe organ didn’t streak it for the front door. Which is all bunk, of course. Still, it is to be admitted that I did break up the Sunday School. Following a babble of excited voices, we heard quick footsteps coming toward the basement door. Then the door opened. But by this time the leader had his head in the window.

“Quick!” says he, going over the sill on his stomach. To hurry me along he got down on his knees and gave me his hands. I have a hunch that whoever led the way down the stairs caught a glimpse of my flying legs as I went out through the window. But that was nothing to worry about.

Getting to my feet, the first thing I did, of course, like Poppy, was to look around for the cat killer. But, to my surprise, there was no one in sight. Determined not to let the fellow get away from us, we scooted, tandem-style, around the church. Still no success. Nor could we see anybody in the street except two gray-haired ladies in an old-fashioned buggy who were arguing in the deaf-and-dumb language over which hitching post they should use: the one in front of the church or the one at the parsonage. Next we ran to the alley, where we saw plenty of ash cans, but nothing on two legs except a junky-acting rooster.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” panted Poppy. “Where in Sam Hill did he go to, anyway?—into the earth?”

This new stuff tangled us up worse than ever. If the man had been listening to us, as seemed probable, considering how very careful he had been to keep back out of sight, why had he jerked the cat through the window? Was it to scare us?

But how strange, to go deeper, that he had been so close to us when we least suspected it! Still, on that point, all of his actions had been strange. In many ways he was as mysterious as a shadow, itself.

A cat-strangling machine! Ugh! The poor cat had been given no chance at all. But if the mystery of how he did his cat strangling had thus been cleared up to us, we had yet to learn why he did it.

Having upset the Sunday School, we decided that it was a good place to keep away from. So that was one Sunday that the church didn’t get our two dimes. Our plan now was to see what information we could pick up at Mrs. O’Mally’s house. And as we had a long dusty walk ahead of us on the bottom road, we hurried home and changed our clothes.

“I haven’t told you,” says Poppy, when we were headed for the river, “about my talk with Mrs. Clayton. She was awakened, she said, by a cat scream—as she describes it, a most hideous scream. Thinking that the house cat was in trouble, she started downstairs, but as Mr. Weckler was ahead of her on the stairs she went back to bed. Just as she was dozing off she heard a cry; then something fell. She almost fainted, I guess, when she saw what had happened in the library. And as soon as she could, of course, she got Doc on the telephone.”

“Did you tell her that Peter is dead?”

“Yes. And I took her outside and showed her the grave, so that she could tell Mr. Weckler about it when he got up.”

I thought then of our early-morning work. Bill had wondered whether or not the cat had been strangled before the attack on the old man or afterwards. We knew now, from what Mrs. Clayton had told Poppy, that it was the cat’s death cry, itself, that had gotten the awakened owner out of bed. Yet the puzzling question still hung before us: Why had the housebreaker killed the cat? What had been his object? Having invented some kind of a fearful cat-strangling machine, was it a mania of his, or whatever you call it, to go around killing harmless cats? And, if so, did he sometimes pick off bigger stuff than cats? Boys, for instance, or even grown men? Of these thoughts, I had the sudden shivery feeling that Poppy and I, as treasure hunters, had best watch our “P’s” and “Q’s.”

Coming within sight of the old stone house at exactly twelve o’clock, the leader suddenly was reminded of something.

“Say, Jerry, I haven’t told you yet about the bad news.”

That was so! In the morning’s excitement I had forgotten all about it. But I wasn’t particularly worried.

“It can’t be any worse than the rotten pickles,” I grinned. “So spit it out.”

“Last Thursday when I was in Rockford, my cousin, who works in a wholesale grocery store, took me down to the office to meet the boss. Our talk was mostly about cucumber pickles. Mr. Wiggins was very much interested in our new pickle business. I spread a lot of gab, I guess. And what do you know if I didn’t talk him into giving me an order for two thirty-gallon barrels! Being Henny’s cousin helped, I suppose. Anyway, whether it was that or just my line of gab, I got the order. Boy, did I ever feel big! If we could sell barreled pickles to him, my imagination began to jump around, why couldn’t we sell them by the barrel to other wholesalers? I was sure that we could. And so that we would have plenty of cucumbers to work on, and thus be able to fill the whopping big pickle orders that we were going to get, I telegraphed to Mrs. O’Mally, telling her that we’d buy her whole cucumber crop.”

“What?” I squeaked, staring at him.

“At two dollars a bushel.”

It was so much worse than what I had expected that I lost my voice. I could only stare. Finally, though, I got my voice back again, after a lot of gurgling and neck-stretching. I tightened up my wabbly legs, too. And remembering that he was my best pal regardless, I shoved out a fumbling paw.

“Poppy,” says I, wondering what made it so blamed hot all of a sudden, “since I’ve known you you’ve made some beau-tiful high dives. But this is one time, kid, when you sure landed flat on your little tummy. Seven hundred bushels of cucumbers at two dollars a bushel! Wow!” I drew a deep breath. Boy, it sure was hot! “But it’s you and me, kid,” I went on, pumping his arm up and down, with the sweat running. “That’s the way we started; and that’s the way we’re going to finish.” Then I tried to be enthusiastic. “Anyway,” says I, “who knows but what we may be able to think up a scheme for making cucumber watch charms or fancy green doo-dads for ladies’ hats? So don’t start twiddling your thumbs now, old hunk. Use your beezer. It looks just as good to me as it ever did ... on the outside. And if you can’t get action any other way, swallow a bumblebee.”

We were walking slower now.

“What are we going to tell Mrs. O’Mally?” says he, looking ahead.

“Why not wait and see what she tells us?”

“But suppose she asks us for money?”

“Write her out a check,” I made a big gesture. “We still have thirty-two dollars in the bank.”

He sort of squeezed my arm.

“Jerry,” says he, “you’re a little brick. I really didn’t think you’d take it so—so cheerful-like. In fact, considering how I had jumped into it without telling you, I thought you’d be a little bit sore. And I was all ready to have you pounce on me and call me a dumb-bell.”

Lots of times we slam-bang the “dumb-bell” stuff at each other in fun, as I have written down. But to call that kid a dumb-bell in earnest would be like telling a lily to go out in the kitchen and wash its face. No, sir, a dumb-bell was one thing he wasn’t. Ambition was what had tripped him up. His ideas were too big for his shoes. So, in a way, it isn’t to be wondered at that he had taken a flop. Of course, as his partner, he should have gotten my advice before ordering the cucumbers. But I wasn’t going to crab at him on that point. For he always took the lead, anyway. And any scheme to save us would come out of his head, not mine.

Having passed into the well-kept yard, I took a squint out back, expecting to see a young cucumber mountain. But nothing of that kind was in sight. Nor were the pickers at work, this being Sunday.

A few chickens ran out to meet us, as though expecting to be fed, and at the side porch a big cat jumped out of a chair. Rapping on the screen door, we heard footsteps. Presently Mrs. O’Mally came into sight.

“Come in,” she invited, holding the door open. In the careful housekeeping way that many women have, she brushed out a fly or two with her apron. “I was wonderin’,” she added, looking at us warmly, “if ye wouldn’t be out to-day to see your cucumbers. ’Tis a whole cellar full that I have for ye. Come! I’ll show ’em to ye.”

“There’s no hurry,” says Poppy, noticing that the woman had gotten up from the dinner table. “We’ll just sit down and wait till you’re through eating.”

There’s something particularly fine about Mrs. O’Mally. Like Mother. When you’re around her you sort of have the feeling that she likes you and wants you to know about it. Of course, she probably doesn’t like everybody. But I know that she likes me! So I wasn’t surprised when she warmly insisted on us sitting up to the table and eating dinner with her. Nor did we refuse. For that wouldn’t have been polite.

“Sure,” she bustled around, getting more stuff out of the kettles on the stove, “’tis a much finer dinner I would have had for ye could I have known ahead of time that ye would be likely to drop in on me at this particular hour. But if ye have to skimp on the taters ye can have your fill of bread an’ jam. Then, too, ’tis a fine three-layer cake I have in the pantry. An’ pickles! Sure, I can give ye plenty of them. An’ all fresh made, too.”

“No, thanks,” I grinned. “I’m not eating pickles to-day.” Nor did Poppy, I notice, show any interest in the pickles.

“Did you know,” says he, galloping into the food, “that the man who built this house used to have a big cucumber patch out back where your patch is?”

Coming out of the pantry with more bread on a plate, Mrs. O’Mally let the slices fall to the floor. And seeing her face, as it turned white at mention of the pirate, I kicked the leader under the table. She knew secret stuff, all right!

Later she took us down a flight of heavy stairs into the deep, dungeon-like cellar, where a week’s picking from the big cucumber patch had been put into one huge bin. One hundred and thirty bushels, she said proudly. I could imagine that she was saying “two hundred and sixty dollars” in her mind. And all we had in the bank was thirty-two dollars!

“I suppose,” says she, “that you’ll be comin’ after ’em soon.”

Poppy didn’t say anything. He felt kind of sneaking, I guess. But, to that point, until we knew for sure that we were up a tree there was no sense in alarming her.

“Had I not known Jerry’s pa and ma so well, I might have hesitated to save the cucumbers for ye, as the telegram said. But ’tis confidence I have a-plenty in the Todd family. For who give me the fine woolen blankets for me bed last winter, when the snow was tin feet deep between here and the river road? No one but Miz Todd, herself. An’ who come with a truck-load of coal, even shovelin’ his way? Ye should know, Jerry, for ’twas that elegant pa of yours. Sure, I wanted to pay him for the coal, but would he take a penny? Not him! He had coal goin’ to waste in the brickyard, he said, like the magnificent liar that he is, an’ it was a great accommodation to find some one who could make good use of it.” The old woman was dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Yes, Jerry,” she put a trembling hand on my shoulder, “’tis a fine pa and ma that ye have. An’ if ye say ’tis me entire cucumber crop that ye want, God bless ye ’tis yours for the askin’. I can even wait for me money, if necessary.”

I didn’t say anything. But I was doing a lot of deep thinking. This showed how lucky a boy was to have a good pa and ma. Mrs. O’Mally trusted me because she trusted my folks. Old Poppy, I stiffened, as I saw where my duty lay, simply had to squeeze a winning scheme out of his beezer now. There were no “if’s” or “and’s” about that. For I saw that if we skidded on paying for the cucumbers it would be just the same as throwing dirt on the fine family reputation that Mother and Dad had been carefully building up all these years.

Tap! Tap! Tap! It was a slight sound. Faint and far-away. And under ordinary circumstances I might not have noticed it at all. For frequently sounds of no consequence carry a long distance in the earth, like the time in the Higby-ravine cave when we heard a farmer’s water-pumping engine almost a mile away. This, though, was no such sound as that. It was more like even rock-hammer blows. Tap! Tap! Tap! Some one near us was working underground.

There was a cry from Poppy. And I wheeled to find him supporting Mrs. O’Mally.

“Help me, Jerry. She’s fainted!”

There was some excitement then, let me tell you. But, to the woman’s good fortune, her fainting spell wasn’t anything serious. Having carried her upstairs, she opened her eyes when we sprinkled water on her. And soon she was sitting up, quite as well as ever, except that she looked peculiarly white.

“This,” says she, in a weary voice, “is the end. I’m goin’ to move. I can stand it no longer. For me nerves is a wreck.”

Then, to our amazement, she told us a strange story of ghostly raps and muffled hammer blows in the cellar walls. It had started about a month ago, she said. At first she had thought that it was rats. But she soon changed that belief. For no rats could have made the peculiar sounds that she heard, both day and night. Nor did the sounds, as she grew more familiar with them, seem earthly to her, which led to the superstitious conclusion that the house was indeed haunted. What she heard was a ghost! No doubt the ghost of the dead pirate, himself! Yet, poor as she was, and alone in the world, she had tried to fight down her fright. For if she let the ghost drive her out of the house she had no place else to go. Then, too, the fear of ridicule had kept her from going to the neighbors with her story.

We told her then about the gold cucumber and the things connected with it. What she had heard, we said excitedly, wasn’t a ghost, but the one-armed cat killer who was searching in the secret cellars of the old house for the balance of the pirate’s hidden treasure, of which, no doubt, the one gold cucumber that he had found was the key.

“Mither of Moses!” she cried, with terrified eyes. “A cat killer, did ye say? ’Tis this very day I’ll move out of here.”

Poppy grinned.

“Don’t you worry, Mrs. O’Mally. We aren’t going to let him harm you. In fact, we’re going to stay right here with you until we find out the truth about this queer old place. So, there now!” he further comforted her. “Just forget about your fears. And on top of taking good care of you, if we do find the hidden treasure, you’re going to get a third of it. Don’t forget about that.”

Here a swell roadster drove into the yard.

“Young Pennykorn and his grandfather,” Poppy rubbered.

“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!”