DARK DAYS
Two--three days passed. And were Poppy and I ever the busy little bees!
Oh, boy! We were here, there and everywhere, with the president of the
Ladies’ Aid pulling our coat tails one minute for more cucumbers and
the kid from the Western Union office zigzagging after us the next
with a peck of reply telegrams from keg foundries, bottle factories,
and I don’t know what all. There were trips to the printing shop,
too, where we were having labels printed, small ones for bottles and
big ones, printed in red and green, for the ten-gallon kegs that were
being zipped to us by fast freight. Between jobs Poppy squeezed out
a business letter, which later on was run off in quantities at the
printing office and then mailed to wholesale grocers all over the state.
Poppy’s Pedigreed Pickles! With so much lively pickle making going on
in town, which, of course, created wide talk, and with so much mail
going out of town, it seemed to me that everybody within a radius of
a thousand miles ought to know about our wonderful new pickles. I
felt pretty big, let me tell you. For here we were with twenty women
working for us. And us nothing but boys! It was a feather in our cap,
all right. I was crazy, too, to get the kegs filled, so that we could
do the shipping act. For then, of course, the money would come rolling
in. Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along! The little old jack
couldn’t roll in any too fast to suit me. How wonderful it was to be
rich!
During these helter-skelter days there were moments when I stopped,
winded, to sort of stare at Poppy in appreciative wonderment. That
kid! No matter what came up he always seemed to know just what to do
and how to do it. It was his earnest lingo in the first place that
had won Mother over to our scheme, and through her the other members
of the Ladies’ Aid. If we took in a total of eight thousand dollars,
he said, in presenting the proposition to them, that would mean eight
hundred dollars for the church. So, finding that the Commercial Bank
was backing us, which proved that our scheme wasn’t just a crazy kid
notion, there was a general call throughout the Methodist circles for
workers, and by the time our first wagonload of cucumbers was delivered
at the church kitchen twenty women were there to do the receiving act.
As Mrs. O’Mally was now kept busy at the church from eight in the
morning till five in the afternoon, Uncle Abner took charge of the
picking. And, boy, oh, boy, did the cucumbers ever roll in! Bushels and
bushels and bushels of them! As I have explained, they first had to be
soaked in salt water for two days, and at one time Poppy and I counted
two hundred and fifteen borrowed tubs in the church basement, every one
of which was filled to the brim. It began to look as though the workers
would have to start parking filled tubs upstairs in front of the
pulpit. Then the kegs arrived, in the nick of time, and as fast as they
were filled we piled them outside at the curb. One old lady in passing
was horrified by the thought that they were beer kegs. Can you imagine!
Later the filled kegs were trucked to a barn near Poppy’s place, which
we called our “warehouse.”
We also opened our store, putting Tom in charge. His first job was to
get rid of the other junk on the shelves, after which the glass jars
were washed clean and filled with new pickles.
In starting out in the pickle business our original plan had been to
sell only in Tutter. But now, with such a tremendous wad of pickles
on our hands, and more coming, we realized that we had to reach out
for a wider market. And that is why Poppy had written to the Illinois
wholesalers.
Over four hundred dollars of our money had been paid out. And every
mail brought us a bill for something or other. But to our great
disappointment the orders that we had expected didn’t come in. Even
worse, the one order that Poppy had gotten in Rockford was canceled.
What was wrong? Was the Pennykorn gang bucking us with some secret
influence that we didn’t know about? Poppy got his Rockford cousin on
the telephone, thus learning that the canning company had written to
all of their dealers, warning them against our pickles. Later Henny
sent us the letter. Here it is:
Wiggins & Wakefield,
Rockford, Ill.
Gentlemen:
It is our duty, we feel, to inform you that a somewhat absurd attempt
has been made in Tutter, by two inexperienced boys, to start up a
rival pickle concern.
You, of course, can imagine what kind of “pickles” two boys would
make! To us, though, it is not a humorous situation, for we feel,
owing to their use of the “Tutter” name, that you and other dealers,
whose good will we value highly, might confuse the new product with
ours.
Enclosed is a newspaper clipping, secured through the courtesy of
the Chicago Daily Tribune, which pertains to a recent local epidemic
of ptomaine poisoning. We are unwilling, of course, to state openly
that the so-called “pedigreed pickles” now being canned by these
misguided boys were responsible for the community poisoning. However,
as the boys scattered samples of their “pickles” throughout town
on the same day the poisoning developed, you can draw your own
conclusion.
At your service as always,
The Tutter Canning Company,
Foreman Pennykorn, President.
You can see how unfair the letter was. It made out that our pickles
had poisoned the people, which wasn’t so. From start to finish it was
nothing but a sort of lie.
“Poppy,” says I, “I guess we’re done for.”
But while the leader was worried, as his face showed, he had no thought
of giving up.
“It could be worse, Jerry.”
“Pickles and debts,” I further sweat. “They’re going to smother us.”
“How many kegs have we in stock?”
“One hundred and twenty.”
“That’s twelve hundred gallons. They’re easily worth one-fifty a
gallon. So that gives us eighteen hundred dollars in quick assets.”
“We aren’t talking about assets,” says I. “We’re talking about pickles.”
“Pickles are assets in this case. The point is, Jerry, that we have a
stock of pickles worth eighteen hundred dollars. Our debts are around
five hundred dollars. So we aren’t in such terribly bad shape as you
imagine. If necessary, we’ll carry samples of our pickles direct to the
retail trade, so that the grocers will see exactly what they’re buying.
It will take longer to sell our stock that way. But I think we can do
it. And later on--”
“What then?” says I, when he paused, with a sort of hard look on his
face.
“It’s a long lane, Jerry,” says he, thinking of the crooked Pennykorn
bunch, “that hasn’t a turn.”
I wasn’t so perked up by this encouraging talk as you might imagine.
And when Poppy filled a a suit case with samples and went away that
afternoon on a selling trip, I felt like a deserted sailor on a sinking
ship. I knew now why an old dog, in dying, always tried to crawl off
into some dark corner. Death being a sort of disgrace, it wanted to get
out of its master’s sight. So did I! And to think that only a few hours
ago I had patted myself on the back. Oh, gee! If we never had gotten
into this awful mess. How crazy we had been to think that we could buck
a hundred-thousand-dollar corporation.
[Illustration: ONE OLD LADY WAS HORRIFIED THINKING THEY WERE BEER KEGS.
_Poppy Ott’s Pedigreed Pickles._ _Page 205_]
Tom, as I say, was running the store, which, with steadily increasing
business, was picking up several dollars a day. And out in the country
Uncle Abner was still bossing the pickers, who seemingly were working
harder than ever. The Methodist ladies, I noticed, were beginning
to lose their enthusiasm. Then, to completely knock the props out
from under me, a strange farmer pulled up to the church with a huge
wagonload of cucumbers. He was glad to know that we were paying two
dollars a bushel, he sort of beamed at me. And he had decided to let us
have his entire crop, of which two more wagon-loads were now on the way
to town.
“No!” I cried, getting my voice. “Take them over to the canning
factory. We don’t want them.”
“Look here, young feller,” he began to bristle, “you kain’t go back on
your word that way.”
“What?” I squeaked, going cold. “Did Poppy order cucumbers from _you_,
too?”
“When I was comin’ by Miz O’Mally’s farm I stopped in, to git a peek at
her patch. An’ your man out thar--the one with the whiskers--said if
I’d bring my cucumbers here, an’ stand by you in your scheme of buckin’
the cannin’ company, you’d pay me two dollars a bushel. So here they
be.”
I started to argue with him. I tried to tell him that Uncle Abner had
no right to buy the cucumbers. As it was, I said, we had a hundred
times more cucumbers than we could use. But I might just as well have
shoved my gab at a brick wall. He unloaded the cucumbers right there
in front of my eyes. A pile as high as my head! No wonder a sweating
pickle maker fainted dead away when she groped her way out of the
kitchen for a breath of fresh air and saw what was ahead of her.
I don’t know what I told the farmer. He declared afterwards that I said
we’d pay him at the end of the week. Anyway, he drove off. And there I
was! Nor could I wire Poppy to come home and help me. For I didn’t know
whether he was in Joliet or Peoria, though, to that point, I expected a
letter from him in the afternoon mail which undoubtedly would contain
his address.
Down the street two more cucumber wagons had come into sight, and
hearing a buzz of excited voices in the church basement, as the
recovering fainter began talking, I decided that the best thing for me
to do was to dig out.
“Say, Jerry,” Tom told me, when I dragged myself wearily into the
Pickle Parlor, “Mr. Pennykorn wants to see you.”
“What?” I stared in amazement.
“He stopped in here a few minutes ago. Talked as nice as pie, too. So
you better run over and find out what he’s got up his sleeve.”
“Yah,” I sweat, “and get my beezer knocked off. Bu-lieve me, I know
that old bird, all right.”
“Shucks! He wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on you even if he wanted to.
You ought to know that.”
The last time I had talked with Mr. Pennykorn his eyes had blazed with
hatred. But now, on meeting him in his office, he purred over me like
an old pussy cat.
“I suppose,” says he, when I was seated, “that you’re wondering why I
sent for you.”
I nodded. I guess I was pretty stiff about it, too. For I couldn’t
forget about that crooked letter.
“The--ah--point is,” he got down to business, “we have a market for
cucumber pickles, but no new stock, largely due, of course, to your
interference. On the other hand, as I understand the situation, you
have a sizable stock but no market. So it would seem to me, putting
aside all past differences that the thing for us to do is to get
together in a friendly way. And here is my proposition: We will take
over your entire pickle stock, assume all your debts, reimburse you
for the money that you have paid out of your own pockets, absorb all
your ordered raw stock, and, in addition, as an indication of our good
faith, write a personal check for you in the amount of two hundred
dollars--this, of course, in the event that the plan meets with your
approval.”
Oh, boy, what a relief! Now we could get out from under, as the saying
is, without losing a penny. Better, still, we’d be two hundred dollars
to the good. Crooked as he had been with us, I was willing to forgive
him.
“I’ll have to get Poppy on long distance,” says I, when he brought out
a contract for me to sign.
“Not necessarily,” says he in that nice pussy-cat way.
“But we’re partners.”
“Your separate signature is binding.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t want to sign,” I held off, “unless Poppy knows about it.”
“This is a very generous offer, everything considered,” says he in a
peculiarly steady voice. His eyes, too, were peculiar. Sort of deep
and dangerous-like. “For your own good,” he added, “I would urge its
immediate acceptance.”
I got up.
“No,” I further shook my head, backing toward the door. “I won’t sign
the paper unless Poppy says so. I’ll try and locate him right away.
I--I think it will be all right, Mr. Pennykorn. I want to sign it. And
I think he’ll tell me to go ahead. Just as soon as I get word from him
I’ll let you know.”
As I was going out I met young smarty.
“Had to come to time, huh?” he sneered.
I didn’t say anything. But I was glad all of a sudden, as I shot a
black look at him, that I hadn’t signed the paper. However, that
feeling was short lived. For I realized what would happen to us if we
didn’t sign. They weren’t through with us. Mr. Pennykorn’s actions
had said so as plain as words. He was giving us a last chance. And,
bu-lieve me, I wasn’t going to let that chance get away from me.
Telling Tom what was in the wind, I lit out for the post office. But
the expected letter wasn’t there. However, a telegram was handed to me
shortly before four o’clock.
Sold ten gallons to Chicago grocer. Will be home to-night at
eight-thirty with order.
Poppy.
Ten gallons! _Some_ order. I was surprised that Poppy had mentioned it
in the telegram. Maybe, though, I figured out, this was just his way of
breaking the news to me that his selling trip had been a fizzle.
I got Mr. Pennykorn on the telephone. And it was arranged that I was to
meet Poppy at the train and take him directly to the bank, where the
contract was to be signed.