IN THE SHADOW OF THE CHIMNEY
As soon as we hit the street I weaved over to the curb and collapsed.
“What’s the matter?” grinned old surprise package. “Are you tired?”
“Kid,” I recovered my voice, “I’m paralyzed with joy. Is it true?”
For answer he subtracted a sheaf of orders from his inside coat pocket.
“It was easy, Jerry, after I once got on the right track.”
I drew a deep breath.
“Poppy,” says I, loving him with my eyes, “you’re a wonder.”
“Aw!... Cut out the ‘wonder’ stuff,” he shrugged, “and let’s lasso a
couple of sandwiches. For I haven’t had my supper yet.”
“You ought to write a book,” I further bragged on him.
“A cook book?” he grinned.
“No. A book on selling. For you surely know how to do it. Who was the
first victim to come under your hypnotic influence?”
“One of the railroad officials.”
“Conductor?”
“No. President.”
“What?” I squeaked. Yet, knowing him so well, I shouldn’t have been
surprised.
He dropped down beside me.
“It’s funny, Jerry,” says he, “what queer ideas a fellow gets about big
business men. I always pictured a railroad president as a towering,
square-shouldered, high-pressure man with a foghorn voice and sixteen
jumping secretaries. But Mr. Lorrimer wasn’t that kind of a man at all.
In fact, when I found out that he was the president of the railroad you
could have knocked me over with a feather. And did I ever feel silly
for a minute or two! For I had been razzing his pickles.”
I didn’t get that.
“We were in the dining car,” Poppy then explained more fully. “Me on
one side of the small table and little snappy eyes on the other side.
I noticed that the waiters gave him a lot of attention. But, as I say,
I never dreamed that he was the president of the railroad. Looked to
me more like the proprietor of a peanut stand, or something like that.
We talked back and forth. Then some cucumber pickles were brought in.
They weren’t much, I said, thinking of our own swell pickles. That kind
of ruffled little what’s-his-name. I had to tell him then who I was,
after which he sent the waiter to get my sample case. Then, finding
that my pickles were everything that I had claimed for them, he called
in another man, who turned out to be the food buyer for the railroad.
‘Samson,’ says he, ‘this boy has something we need in connection with
our dining-car service. Look into his proposition, please. And see what
can be done.’”
“And then,” says I, anticipating the story’s ending, “is when the big
order was shoved at you, huh?”
“I got an order,” he nodded. “But it wasn’t so very big. Only six
ten-gallon kegs.”
I searched his face.
“But you said in the bank that you had sold our entire stock.”
“And so I have ... but the railroad company didn’t buy the big bulk of
it, though, to that point, we probably will get bigger orders from them
when they learn that we’re dependable. Getting my story, Mr. Samson
asked me why I didn’t try the big Chicago hotels and restaurants. They
bought tremendous quantities of food, he said, and always were on
the lookout for a ‘special.’ He even gave me a note of introduction
to one buyer. So, instead of stopping in Joliet, as had been my plan
in starting out I went on into the city. And there, kiddo, is where
I got the big orders. Oh, baby! My only worry now is shipments. I’m
wondering if we can make good.”
“And you knew all this,” I gave him a stiff eye, “when you sent that
telegram?”
“Sure thing,” he grinned. “I thought it would be fun to throw a scare
into you. As a matter of fact, the order that I mentioned in the
telegram is the smallest of the lot.”
At the restaurant I asked them to bring me a cup of strong coffee. I
felt I needed it. For in checking over Poppy’s orders I found that they
totaled more than six thousand dollars.
Tom Weir collided with us in front of the hash house.
“I’ve been looking all over town for you.”
“What’s the matter?” says Poppy, noticing how excited the other was.
“Has the cat killer been after you?”
Tom shook his head.
“It’s the gold cucumber.”
I should have mentioned that the cucumber had been returned to our new
chum and his uncle. And now Tom brought it out of his pocket in two
pieces.
“We were looking at it to-night,” he explained, “trying again to figure
out its secret. Dropping it by accident, Mrs. O’Mally rocked on it. We
found out then that it had been made in halves and put together with
gold rivets.”
“Did anything come out of it?” cried Poppy excitedly.
“No. But if you’ll take this piece closer to the light you’ll find it’s
got a lot of queer marks on it.”
Later I made a drawing of the marks. Here it is:
[Illustration]
Poppy studied the pictures, realizing, of course, that they composed
the “key” to the treasure’s hiding place.
“The first picture,” says he, “is the sun.”
“Either that,” say I, putting my own beezer to work, “or a full moon.”
“A full moon! That’s it! For pirates always hid their stuff by
moonlight. A gold cucumber first. Then a full moon. That must mean a
full moon in cucumber time.”
“Lay to it, old Sherlock,” I patted the brainy one on the back. “You’re
getting warmer every minute.”
“This is a clock,” says Tom, pointing to the second picture.
“Sure thing,” waggled Poppy. “And the hands point to twelve, which
means noon or midnight.”
“Midnight, of course,” I swung in. “For whoever heard of a full moon in
the middle of the day?”
There was more deep studying.
“I don’t get the third picture,” says Poppy.
“Looks like soap bubbles,” says I.
“Or a string of magician’s rings,” says Tom.
“Do you suppose that it’s a chimney. Those circles may be smoke rings.”
I gave a yip.
“Sure thing, it’s a chimney,” says I, with a picture of the old stone
house in my mind. “And we know what chimney, too.”
“The last picture is a coffin.”
“Br-r-r-r!” I shimmied. “Let’s hope we don’t have to tackle any
graveyard stuff.”
Tom further studied the third picture.
“Maybe the treasure is hid in the big chimney,” says he. “And to get it
we’ve got to go in from the top.”
“But what’s the idea of the other pictures?” puzzled Poppy.
“The only thing a moon does,” says I, “is to make light. And light
makes shadows. So maybe we’re supposed to dig in the shadow of the
chimney, or something like that.”
“Jerry, old pal, that little beezer of yours sure is popping off steam
to-night. Coffins always go in the ground. So we’re supposed to _dig_.
And the moon and the chimney tell where to dig.”
We lit out then for the stone house. And up in the sky was the biggest,
fattest moon you ever laid eyes on. Uncle Abner and Mrs. O’Mally were
waiting up for us, playing the talking machine. Pretty soon the clock
struck midnight. And going outside we marked off the shadow of the
chimney, as it showed on the ground, and began to dig. It was hard
work. But we never let up, even though we were blinded by the sweat
that streamed down our faces. For comfort we took off our coats and
shirts. We now were working in a hole almost four feet deep. Then,
about two o’clock in the morning, we found it!
Getting the iron chest out of the hole, after a whale of a lot of
pulling and tugging, we whacked the rusted padlock to pieces with the
pick and threw back the cover. Nor were we disappointed! And, to that
point, I sometimes wonder if another such peculiar treasure ever was
brought to light. Gold cucumbers! Thousands of them--or so it seemed to
us at the exciting moment.
To-day Poppy and I each have a snug little nest egg of seven thousand
dollars tucked away in Mr. Lorring’s bank. That was our share of the
treasure. For the gold, of course, was later sold. And you understand,
too, that each of the other three got the same amount. Thirty-five
thousand dollars! That was the total amount of the treasure. Not as
much as we had expected. But are we kicking? I hope to snicker we
aren’t.
The newspapers all over the state made a big thing of the recovered
treasure. And a reporter with shell-rimmed glasses and spats came all
the way from Chicago to take pictures. I felt pretty big when I saw
my picture in the newspaper. Right beside old Peg-leg, too--only, of
course, his picture was made up. And what a picture it was! But the
newspaper story got little attention from Poppy. Pedigreed Pickles was
still the big thing in his mind. For he had the job now of getting
organized for still heavier production.
I might say in that connection that the Methodist ladies perked up
somewhat when we gave them a check for one hundred and eighty dollars,
which paid them for the work they had done to date. Still, though they
were willing to go on, we felt that we had more cucumbers than they
could handle. And not wanting to be partial, just because we were
Methodists, we gave the Presbyterian ladies a chance to pull a few
nails out of their church debt. Then we put the Catholic ladies to
work. Pickles, pickles, pickles! The town was flooded with pickles. We
shipped them out right and left. And how grand and glorious was the
feeling when the little old checks began to roll in.
We went after the cat killer, too. But before I write down that part,
let me tell you about the banquet that the Chamber of Commerce put on.
Gee! That was one time, I guess, when old Poppy was completely knocked
off his pins. Every time I think of the “speech” he made that night I
laugh myself sick.