disappeared into his grandfather’s office. “Hi, Grandpop. Hi, Pop. Why don’t you turn on the electric fan? It’s hotter than an oven in here.”

“Not infrequently,” was the banker’s dry reply, “it is advisable to endure slight bodily discomforts in order to economize.”

“That’s all Greek to me. Say, Pop, can I have a ten-spot? I want to take a spin over to Ashton this afternoon.”

“Forrest, your grandfather and I have just been talking about you. And we both feel that you’re old enough to be of some help to me at the factory.”

[12]“What?”

[12]

“The business will be yours some day. And you ought to begin now to—”

A gust of wind having blown the door wide open, it was now closed with a bang, staying latched this time. And not knowing how much longer we might be kept waiting, Poppy got up, sort of impatient-like, and went over to the cashier’s window.

“We’re interested in Mr. Pennykorn’s empty store building near the Lattimer meat market. Can you tell us what it rents for?”

“One hundred and twenty-five a month,” snapped the cashier, a bit peeved, I guess, that we hadn’t taken up the business with him in the first place.

“One hundred and twenty-five dollars?” says Poppy, drawing a deep breath.

The man nodded curtly, after which the president and general manager of Tutter’s leading Pickle Parlor gave a sort of wilted laugh.

“I guess, Mr. Blynn, that’s too steep for us.”

A stoop-shouldered old man had come into the bank. And I noticed now that he was standing where he could listen. His face looked peculiarly familiar to me. But for the life of me I couldn’t place him at the moment.

“Are you planning on starting up a store?” the cashier thawed out under the warmth of his own curiosity.

[13]“A Pickle Parlor,” says Poppy, who felt, I guess, that the sooner he started advertising the new business the better.

[13]

“A what?” the bank clerk stared.

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