“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.”

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

[10]

“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[11] Parlor. But I never dreamed that soon the two businesses, so to speak, would be kicking each other in the seat of the pants.

[11]

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 

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