Poppy Ott's pedigreed pickles

When Poppy Ott jumps into a thing he usually knows where he’s going to land. For he’s a pretty smart boy for his age, as you probably will agree with me if you have read the earlier books that I have written about him. But, bu-lieve me, his wits sure were tangled up the day he got that “Pickle Parlor” idea! Or, at least, that is what I told him when he first sprung his brilliant little scheme on me.

In arguing with him, to bring him down to earth as it were, I tried to convince him that a Pickle Parlor was about as sensible as a barber shop for hairless poodles. No one, I said, referring to the people who bought groceries, would buy their sugar and other truck in one store and then walk a block to buy their pickles in a pickle store. That would be just extra work for them.

“They will,” says he, sticking to his scheme, “if we have better pickles to sell them than they can buy in the average grocery store.”

“Pickles is pickles,” says I.

“Like almost everything else,” says he, as solemn and wise as an old owl, “there’s a big difference in pickles.”

“Yah,” says I, “some are sweet and some are sour.”

“I mean,” says he, “that of pickles of a kind some are much better than others. Take your own mother’s pickles for example. You must have noticed that they’ve got a better taste than boughten pickles. And that largely explains why a great many women prefer to make their own pickles. They want better pickles than they can buy. So how easy for us to build up our new business if we get the right kind of pickles to sell!”

I gave him a sad look.

“Poppy,” I sighed, “you’re too much for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“As long as you’re a boy,” I advised, as a further effort to pull him down to earth, “why don’t you be a boy? This Peanut Parlor stuff is out of your line, kid.”

“I didn’t say anything about a Peanut Parlor.”

“Well, a Pickle Parlor is just as crazy. You can’t make it work. For pickles are groceries. And the place to buy them is in a grocery store.”

“Jerry, if you wanted to buy a good cheap stove poker, what store would you go to?”

“To the Stove-poker Parlor,” says I, tickled over my own smartness.

“Be serious.”

“Well,” I complied generously, “I might try the ten-cent store.”

“But a stove poker is hardware. So, if your argument holds good, ought you not to go to a hardware store?”

“Tra-la-la,” says I. “Isn’t it a beautiful day.”

“The point is,” says he, “that people will buy hardware in a novelty store, or, for that matter, anything in any kind of a store, if you make it an object for them to do so.”

“Anyway,” says I, yawning, “running a store is a man’s job. So that lets us out.”

But he was as unmoved as though he were the hill of Gibraltar itself, or whatever you call it.

“Of course,” he reflected, referring to the suggested partnership, “it will be a fifty-fifty proposition.”

Seeing that it was useless to argue with him further, I sort of resigned myself to my fate as his pickle partner.

“I have a hunch,” says I, “that it’s going to be a whole lot worse than that. A Pickle Parlor! We’ll be the laugh of the town.”

“The Wright brothers were laughed at when they tried to fly. And Edison was laughed at when he started working on his talking machine. The easiest thing some people can do is to ridicule any new idea that comes up. But we should worry how much the Tutter people laugh at us. To that point, I’d rather have them laugh at us than ignore us. For to be ridiculed is recognition of a sort.”

“Help!” I cried, holding my head. “Get the dictionary.”

That set Poppy to laughing. And if you could have seen him then as I saw him you would better understand why I like him so well. With all of his wise talk there isn’t a boy in Tutter, where we live, who has more real he-kid fun in him than this long-legged, long-headed chum of mine. And that he has big ideas is, of course, the more credit to him. As he says, half of the fun of being a boy is getting ready early in the game to be a man. Take the stilt factory that I told about in the book, POPPY OTT’S SEVEN-LEAGUE STILTS. That was a big idea, let me tell you. Imagine two boys starting a real, honest-to-goodness factory! With a smokestack on the roof, and everything. When the brain storm first struck my ambitious chum I declared flat-footed that we couldn’t do it. But old long-head said we had to do it, for already he had two big stilt orders in his pocket. On the strength of these orders we borrowed money from the bank to get started. It was pretty tough sledding for us at first, and once we got a wallop that almost floored us. But Poppy is like a rubber ball: the harder he gets bowled over the higher he bounds on the come-back. Good old Poppy!

To-day the stilt factory that we started is a growing business. Mr. Ott runs it. And so spruce and businesslike is he that at sight of him it’s hard to believe that only a short time ago he was a shiftless, no-account tramp. In the book, POPPY OTT AND THE STUTTERING PARROT, I told in detail how Poppy made his father settle down and get a job. So you see my chum deserves credit for that good piece of work, too. Oh, you’ve got to hand it to Poppy, all right. He knows his cauliflower, as the saying is. From which, no doubt, you’ll gather that I wasn’t half as reluctant to become his Pickle Parlor partner as I had let on. I just talked against him for fun. All the time that I was running his scheme down I was thinking of the fun we were going to have and the money we were going to earn. Money! What boy doesn’t like to have money? And how much more it means to a fellow when he earns the money himself. Yes, sir, if old long-head wanted to start a Pickle Parlor or any other kind of a parlor I was with him till the cows came home. Of course, I had everything to learn. But I could watch him. And at the very least I could dust off the pickles while he cleverly punched the cash register. Deep down in my heart I even confessed to myself that I was pretty lucky to have this chance of being his business partner, which shows how much I appreciate him. And it makes me happy to know that he feels the same way toward me. Two peas in a pod! That’s what Dad calls us. But maybe, to better fit this particular case, I should make it two cucumbers on a cucumber vine! Huh?

Now that it was all settled in the leader’s active mind that we were going to be the prosperous proprietors of Tutter’s first and foremost Pickle Parlor, we did the squinting act up and down Main Street to find a suitable location for our young gold mine, thus getting track of an empty store building. It looked awfully big and roomy to me. I tried to picture in my mind what it would look like when we got it filled up with pickles. And my uneasy conclusion was that if we did succeed in filling it up with pickles we’d have enough pickles to feed the whole United States for the next sixty-seven years. Finding out who owned the empty building we trotted down the street to the Canners Exchange Bank, where we asked to see Mr. Foreman Pennykorn, the president.

Of the three Tutter banks Mr. Pennykorn’s bank is the smallest and shabbiest. It gets its name from the canning factory that he owns. And if it wasn’t for this factory I dare say the bank wouldn’t have any business at all. For people as a rule don’t like to do business with that kind of a bank any more than they like to trade in a dingy, sleepy-looking store. I’ve heard it said that the Pennykorn family is one of the richest in the county. But old Mr. Pennykorn is too tight fisted to spend any of his money for adding machines and other up-to-date bank stuff.

Waiting outside of the president’s office, at the orders of the grumpy, suspicious-eyed cashier, we heard voices through the unlatched door. Nor did we feel that it was our duty to stuff up our ears.

“And what price have you posted for early sweet corn?” we heard Mr. Pennykorn inquire, from which we gathered that he was talking with his son, Mr. Norman Pennykorn, who runs the canning factory.

“Nine dollars a ton.”

“Too much; too much,” came in a sort of petulant, disapproving voice.

“But the farmers won’t sell for any less.”

“Um.... What’s the Ashton Canning Company paying?”

“Ten-fifty.”

“Fools! They could buy for less.”

“The farmers aren’t dumb. They know our price is too low. And as a result a lot of them, I’ve been told, are planning to haul their corn over to Ashton. It’s only ten miles. And a difference of one-fifty a ton is a big item to them.”

A chair creaked; after which we heard footsteps going back and forth.

“I told you, Norman, when that Ashton plant was built that we’d suffer from it. If we don’t watch our steps they are going to seriously cut into our business.”

“Well,” came the grunt, “you won’t help matters any by cutting the price on the farmers. For they’re sore at us already.”

“Um ...” studied the crafty banker. “It might be wise for us to buy up this Ashton plant. That would give us control of the local bottom-land acreage. The farmers then would have to sell to us at our price. Otherwise they wouldn’t be able to sell at all unless they shipped. And the most of them are too dumb to attempt a thing like that.”

“But our canned-corn outlet doesn’t justify operating another plant. We’d lose money.”

“I’ve been thinking, Norman, that we ought to materially increase our pickle output. Our Dandy Dills went across fine. Very fine, indeed. The wholesale houses expressed disappointment at the early depletion of our stock. Considering the matter, I’ve come to the conclusion that the somewhat extraordinary acceptance of our Dandy Dills is due, not so much to the manufacturing processes, but to the cucumbers, themselves. Our bottom land has produced exceptional sweet corn. And I’m wondering if it can’t be made to further produce exceptional cucumbers in large quantities. That is, cucumbers of improved texture and flavor. You probably grasp my point. If we can greatly multiply our pickle business, which seems entirely feasible to me, we would be justified in taking over the Ashton plant.”

“For pickles?”

“Exactly. It is something for us to think about.”

“After our marked success last summer with the new pickle line, I encouraged Mrs. O’Mally to increase her acreage this year. And the other day I talked with another farmer from down the river who has a big patch. He’s feeling around for a market. So the prospects are that we’ll quadruple our dill output this summer.”

“Fine. Very fine. But don’t pay too much, Norman. Have an eye to profits. The less we pay out the more satisfactory our profits will be. As a whole, this promises to be a very good year for us. And if we can clean up fifty thousand dollars we’ll be in excellent shape to absorb the Ashton concern.”

“And you really think we should cut the price on sweet corn?”

“It galls me, Norman, to have to pay nine dollars a ton. But, to take a broader view, it would be awkward for us, I imagine, to—ah—antagonize the farmers at this stage in our contemplated development. So we probably had better let the nine-dollar price stand. Or, if necessary, with the future in mind, I even would consent to raising the price to nine-fifty or nine-seventy-five. That will win the farmers’ confidence. And at every opportunity you should talk with them guardedly about cucumbers. You might even contract for a limited acreage. By explaining that it is experimental cannage you can keep them from expecting too much.... By the way, what is the boy doing this summer?”

“Forrest? Oh, burning up gasoline mostly.”

“You should put him to work in the factory. He should be learning the business. Idleness and extravagance are twin evils, Norman. And I cannot countenance either, much less in the habits of my only grandchild.”

Not particularly interested at first in this long-winded business conversation, we had pricked up our ears at the mention of pickles. For that was stuff in our line! It was a sort of coincidence, I told myself, that we should overhear their pickle plans so soon after our decision to start up a Pickle Parlor. But I never dreamed that soon the two businesses, so to speak, would be kicking each other in the seat of the pants.

A sporty-looking roadster having pulled up in front of the bank, its owner, a boy of our age, now sauntered lordly-like into the lobby. Forrest Pennykorn is what I call a first-class snob. I never did get along with him at school, and probably never will, for the only way to keep peace with him is to toady to him, and that is something I won’t do with any kid, rich or poor.

Getting his eyes on us the snappily-dressed young millionaire brought out a scowl. For he has about as much love for us as we have for him.

“Some one must have left the back door open,” was his clever little slap at us, as he disappeared into his grandfather’s office. “Hi, Grandpop. Hi, Pop. Why don’t you turn on the electric fan? It’s hotter than an oven in here.”

“Not infrequently,” was the banker’s dry reply, “it is advisable to endure slight bodily discomforts in order to economize.”

“That’s all Greek to me. Say, Pop, can I have a ten-spot? I want to take a spin over to Ashton this afternoon.”

“Forrest, your grandfather and I have just been talking about you. And we both feel that you’re old enough to be of some help to me at the factory.”

“What?”

“The business will be yours some day. And you ought to begin now to—”

A gust of wind having blown the door wide open, it was now closed with a bang, staying latched this time. And not knowing how much longer we might be kept waiting, Poppy got up, sort of impatient-like, and went over to the cashier’s window.

“We’re interested in Mr. Pennykorn’s empty store building near the Lattimer meat market. Can you tell us what it rents for?”

“One hundred and twenty-five a month,” snapped the cashier, a bit peeved, I guess, that we hadn’t taken up the business with him in the first place.

“One hundred and twenty-five dollars?” says Poppy, drawing a deep breath.

The man nodded curtly, after which the president and general manager of Tutter’s leading Pickle Parlor gave a sort of wilted laugh.

“I guess, Mr. Blynn, that’s too steep for us.”

A stoop-shouldered old man had come into the bank. And I noticed now that he was standing where he could listen. His face looked peculiarly familiar to me. But for the life of me I couldn’t place him at the moment.

“Are you planning on starting up a store?” the cashier thawed out under the warmth of his own curiosity.

“A Pickle Parlor,” says Poppy, who felt, I guess, that the sooner he started advertising the new business the better.

“A what?” the bank clerk stared.

“A Pickle Parlor.”

“What in the name of common sense is a Pickle Parlor?”

“What is an ice-cream parlor?” countered Poppy.

“A place where you buy ice cream.”

“Naturally. So a Pickle Parlor is a place where you buy pickles.”

“I never heard of such a thing.”

“I rather imagine,” came modestly from the genius of Tutter’s new enterprise, “that our Pickle Parlor will be the first of its kind in the United States. When completely organized it is our plan to sell all kinds of quality pickles—apple pickles, beet pickles and various mixtures. But at the start we will specialize in cucumber pickles. I hope you will give us a trial, Mr. Blynn. Pickles is pickles for the most part, but you’ll always get preferred pickles when you deal with us. Even your wife, excellent cook as she no doubt is, will be unable to make better pickles than ours. And to serve with those tasty party sandwiches, which mean so much to an experienced hostess, who would want to use any pickle except the perfect pickles that are the fame of Poppy’s Pickle Parlor? As a matter of fact, we expect to get a corner on the whole pickle business of the town. And later on we may branch out and sprinkle a chain of Pickle Parlors all over the state.”

“I swan!” the cashier stared. “I swan!”

A jeering laugh followed us out of the bank, for young Pennykorn had come out of his grandfather’s office in time to overhear Poppy’s pickle oration.

“Well,” I grinned at my chum, when we were in the street, “we’re getting a lot of that ‘laughed-at’ recognition that you talked about. So you ought to be happy.”

“A Pickle Parlor!” smarty hooted after us from the door of his grandfather’s bank. “A Pickle Parlor! Haw! haw! haw!”

“Jerry,” came solemnly, “do you know what I wish?”

“That you could coax him into an alley and punch his face?”

“Oh, no! I wish I could make him come into our store and beg us to sell him some of our pickles.”

“Which reminds me,” says I, “that you haven’t told me yet where you’re going to get these wonderful pickles.”

“That,” says he, with a thoughtful look, “is still a puzzle to me.”

“Good night!” I squeaked, with much the same feeling as though, having skidded off the moon, I had landed kerflop! on the hard earth. “It’s a good thing, I guess, that they didn’t make us a special offer on that store. For we’d look cute trying to run a Pickle Parlor without any pickles.”