CHAPTER XIXDARK 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 ourwonderful 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 thechurch 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 beenpaid 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, securedthrough 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.
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, securedthrough 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.
ONE OLD LADY WAS HORRIFIED THINKING THEY WERE BEER KEGS.ONE OLD LADY WAS HORRIFIED THINKING THEY WERE BEER KEGS.Poppy Ott’s Pedigreed Pickles.Page205
ONE OLD LADY WAS HORRIFIED THINKING THEY WERE BEER KEGS.Poppy Ott’s Pedigreed Pickles.Page205
ONE OLD LADY WAS HORRIFIED THINKING THEY WERE BEER KEGS.Poppy Ott’s Pedigreed Pickles.Page205
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 fromyou, 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 timesmore 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.
Sold ten gallons to Chicago grocer. Will be home to-night at eight-thirty with order.
Poppy.
Ten gallons!Someorder. 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.