CHAPTER XXPOPPY SPRINGS A SURPRISE
Startingdown the street, after having telephoned to Mr. Pennykorn from the Western Union office, as I have written down in the conclusion of the preceding chapter, I was overtaken by a kid who had a note for me from the president of the Ladies’ Aid. I was to come over to the church right away, the note said, as the “committee” wanted to talk with me on important business.
What I did, instead of obeying the note, was to sneak up an alley and hide in Mr. Weckler’s apple orchard. Any old time you’d catch me going over to the church to “talk business” with that bunch of buzzing women. They were up on their ear, of course, over the farmer’s cucumbers, of which the other two loads were probably piled in front of the door. And what they wanted to do was to jump on my neck. Gosh all Friday! I had tried to head the farmer off. But he wouldn’t listen to me. So it wasn’t my fault.
Mr. Pennykorn could talk to them a whole lot better than I could. Or better than Poppy, either,for that matter. For he was a business man. So the thing for me to do, I wisely decided, was to keep out of sight until the paper had been signed. That would make the banker responsible. Paying them off, as he had agreed to do, the mountain of cucumbers would then be hauled over to the canning factory and everything would be lovely. Mrs. O’Mally would get her money, too. As for the farmer, I should worry about him. My hope was that I’d never see him again.
Mrs. Clayton caught sight of me from the back porch.
“Why, Jerry Todd!” says she in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Hiding,” I pushed out a sickly grin.
“Hiding?” she repeated, searching my face. “Are you in trouble?”
I told her then about the mess that we had made of our pickle business.
“You poor boy,” she laughed. “You certainly are in hot water.”
“How is Mr. Weckler?” I inquired, when she had invited me into the house.
“Getting along very nicely. His mind is still somewhat clouded, but we all feel joyful in the knowledge that it will completely clear up in time.”
“Has he told you yet who hit him?”
“No,” she shook her head.
“We think we’ve got the guy spotted, Mrs. Clayton.”
“Yes?”
“He’s hiding in the ‘Weir jungle’ near the river. And if we once wind up this crazy pickle mess we’ll probably go in after him.”
“But hadn’t you ought to let the law do that?” says she, with a worried look.
“We have a special reason for wanting to do it ourselves,” I told her, thinking, of course, of the still hidden treasure and the help that the peculiarly informed man probably could be to us in its recovery.
“I don’t think you and Poppy ought to attempt it alone.”
“Oh,” I let the cat out of the bag, “there’s four of us now.”
“Fourof you?” she repeated the number, looking at me curiously.
I almost had to tell her then who the other two were. And why not? Tom hadn’t said that we were to keep his identity a secret.
“Did you know, Mrs. Clayton,” I began, “that Mr. Weckler has a grandson?”
She stared.
“Agrandson?” Then she searched my face to see if I were in earnest. “Why, Jerry, you must be mistaken. For if Mr. Weckler has a grandson hesurely would have mentioned it to me. I’ve been here for years.”
“We told Tom that his grandpa didn’t know about him,” I waggled. “But he flew up, hot-tempered. According to the story he tells, his mother wrote home for help, when she was down and out, and the letter never was answered. So, in a way, you can’t blame the kid for being sore. I’d feel the same way, I guess, if it had been my mother.”
“Jerry!” came the further cry. “Are you talking about Mr. Weckler’s daughter?”
I nodded.
“Wouldn’t it be bully,” says I, “if we could bring Tom and his grandpa together. For the kid needs a home. And Mr. Weckler probably would be glad to have him here.”
Getting the whole story, Mrs. Clayton began crying, so great was her joy. If the daughterhadwritten home for help, the letter never had been delivered, the housekeeper declared.
“Oh!” she concluded, dabbing at her eyes. And there was a look on her face that made me think of summer sunshine. “Mr. Weckler will besohappy. For he had mourned over his lost daughter for years. I know, too, that he has tried hard to find her, but without success.”
We talked then of how we could bring the kidand his grandpa together. And learning that the grandson was tending store for us, less than a block away, Mrs. Clayton excitedly put on her hat and hurried down the street. But in her eagerness to see him she had no intention, of course, of saying anything to him about our plans. It was too soon. Afterwards I got a kick out of Tom’s story of how a queer-acting customer breezed into the store, and instead of giving an order stood looking at him as though she wanted to jump over the counter and hug him. As a matter of fact, I suspect that Mrs. Claytondidwant to hug him. Women are that way. And all wrapped up in Mr. Weckler, she was thinking, of course, of the happy days that were coming, with an old man’s mind at ease, and a young heir stationed in the home of his people where he belonged.
At eight o’clock I skinned out for the depot. And pretty soon the train pulled in. Poppy got his eyes on me as he came down the steps with his suit case. And I didn’t have to take a second look at him to know that his selling trip had been a fizzle, as I had suspected from the telegram. For his downcast face told the story. So, as soon as we got together, I hurriedly dished out to him the good news of Mr. Pennykorn’s unexpected offer. By signing the paper, I ran on, we’d get our money back and two hundred dollars to boot. More thanthat, there would be a general squaring-up all round.
“Lovely,” says Poppy, as we hurried down the street, “if—”
“If what?”
“There isn’t a nigger in the fence.”
“Everything will be put down in black and white,” I tried to quiet his suspicions. “So we’ll know exactly what we’re signing.”
“And all we get clear is two hundred dollars, huh?”
I stared at him.
“Goodnight! Under the circumstances I think we’re lucky to get that.”
“The pickles are worth eighteen hundred dollars.”
“To them—yes. But not to us.”
“Evidently,” mused Poppy, “the old geezer must want our pickles pretty badly to come chasing after us.”
“I think he’s very generous,” says I.
“Don’t be simple, Jerry. He hates us like a cat hates vinegar. And much less than wanting to do us a good turn, as you think, he’d squeeze us to the wall in a minute, if he got the chance.”
The sweat began to stream down my face as I saw ruin ahead.
“Poppy, let me ask a favor of you.”
“Shoot.”
“Whatever else you do to-night at the bank, don’t fly off the handle. I know he’s done us dirt. And I know, too, that he hasn’t any love for us. But, kid, we’ve got to face the fact that we’re licked. There’s no getting around that. Smart as we are, his money and influence have been too much for us. And if you shoot it back at him, and make him mad, he may close up like a clam and leave us in the lurch.”
“What do you want me to do,” says Poppy, “lick his hand?”
“We’ve got to knuckle down to him. It’s as bitter to me, of course, as it is to you. But we’ve simplygotto do it. There’s no getting out of it. Anyway,” I held up the brighter side, “we’ll be richer by two hundred dollars. And Mrs. O’Mally will get her two-dollar price. So we haven’t so terribly much to feel blue about. Then, too, there’s the treasure.”
Stopping in front of the police station, Poppy rubbered through the screen door.
“Wait here,” says he, going inside, where he exchanged a few quick words with Bill Hadley, who, in reply, laughed and nodded. Had my mind been less jammed full of uneasiness, I might have been curious. But just then the more important thought to me was what would happen to us if Poppy’stemper did get away from him at the bank. Going to the wall, sort of, in bankruptcy, would Dad have to step in and foot my half of the losses? It was a sickening thought.
There was a light in the bank. And seeing two automobiles parked at the curb, one of which was the grandson’s snappy little roadster, we weren’t surprised, on being admitted, to find the whole family there.
“Have a seat,” says young Pennykorn, as lordly-like as you please, “and we’ll get down to business.”
“Thanks,” Poppy complied dryly.
The kid, it seemed, was going to do the talking. His grandfather and father apparently had made that arrangement with him. For they sat back in silence.
“I suppose young Todd has told you about the contract.”
“Yes.”
“He was in our office this afternoon and Grandpop made him an offer.”
Poppy nodded.
“As I understand it,” says he, “you want to take over our entire pickle stock.”
“We’re willing to do that.”
“Also you want to take over our entire cucumber stock.”
“If we close a deal with you for the pickles,” thekid admitted, “we’ll also take over the cucumbers.”
“And you agree to pay all of our debts, totaling that with a bonus of two hundred dollars.”
“That’s our proposition.”
Poppy sort of turned up his nose.
“I suppose,” says he, “that you think it’s a fair proposition ... for us.”
Smarty stiffened, his cheeks puffing out.
“Fair?” he shot back angrily. “It’s a blamed sight fairer than you deserve. If I had my way—”
“Forrest,” came blandly from the banker, “unless you can handle this matter without losing your temper your father or I shall step in.”
Poppy picked up the conversation.
“I take it for granted,” says he, “that you know what you’re getting for your money.”
“We’ve checked over your stock, if that’s what you mean.”
“What do you figure the stock is worth?”
“Why ask us?” evaded the kid. “You own it.”
“I was just wondering,” says Poppy, “if your estimate is as high as ours.”
The banker cleared his throat.
“They are unproven pickles,” he spoke up. “So it would be—ah—absurd to give them a high valuation.”
“If you’re in doubt about them,” came the shot, “why do you want them?”
The banker colored.
“It’s awfully hot in here,” Poppy mopped his face with his handkerchief. Then he got up and opened a window, through which we could hear the evening traffic in Main Street. “There,” he drew a deep breath, “that’s better.”
Smarty was glaring.
“You’ve got your nerve.”
“Sit down and shut up,” says Poppy, “before I shut you up.” Then he wheeled and faced the banker. “It’s plain to me now why you wrote that lying letter about us. It was a scheme to tie up our stock. And now you think you can buy our pickles at your own terms.”
The banker’s face hardened.
“You had better curb your tongue, young man.”
“Oh!...” Poppy’s eyes blazed. “You’d like to shut me up, would you? You don’t like to have me tell you to your face what a crooked piece of work that letter was. Glare at me, if you want to. I’m not afraid of you. As it happens I’ve been out in the field talking with your wholesalers. And I know why you want our pickle stock. You’re in a hole. You’ve booked orders that you can’t fill. And you’re trying now to buy our pickles to save yourself. Well, let me tell you something—you aren’t going to get a single pickle from us. Nor asingle cucumber, either. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
Smarty started forward.
“I’ll knock your block off!”
But the banker called for silence.
“Young man,” says he in an icy voice, “you’re a fool. For no one but a fool, caught as you are, would impertinently turn down an offer such as we have made you. You have just one more chance—”
“To do what?—sign your paper?”
“Here it is. As a matter of fact,” came steely-like, “wedoneed your pickles. And what’s more, we’re going to get them. For you’re going to sign this paper before you leave here.”
Click! went the key in the lock.
“They can’t get out now, Grandpop.”
The banker held out a pen.
“Sign,” he commanded, and as I got a look at his glittering eyes all I could think of was a snake.
But instead of taking the pen, Poppy stepped quickly to the open window.
“Howdy, Bill,” he spoke to some one outside.
“Howdy, Poppy,” says Bill Hadley.
“Nice evening.”
“Swell,” drawled Bill. “Full moon, I notice.”
“Say, Bill.”
“Yep?”
“If you aren’t in any hurry just stick around for a few minutes longer. Will you?”
I saw now why Poppy had stopped at the police station. He had suspected that an attempt would be made to force us to sign the paper. And how slick of him to get the window open without exciting the enemy’s suspicion!
The banker had to do considerable gulping before he found his voice.
“Unlock the door, Forrest,” says he hoarsely. “You shouldn’t have locked it in the first place.”
Poppy stopped in the doorway.
“By the way,” says he sweetly, “I forgot to tell you that we couldn’t have signed your paper anyway. For this afternoon when I was in Chicago I not only sold every pickle that we’ve got in stock, but I further got orders for all we can make in the next six weeks.”
“It’s a lie!” thundered the banker. “No boy could do it.”
“You would be doing boys an injustice,” was Poppy’s parting shot, “if you were to judge them all by your grandson.”