“A Pickle Parlor.”

“What in the name of common sense is a Pickle Parlor?”

“What is an ice-cream parlor?” countered Poppy.

“A place where you buy ice cream.”

“Naturally. So a Pickle Parlor is a place where you buy pickles.”

“I never heard of such a thing.”

“I rather imagine,” came modestly from the genius of Tutter’s new enterprise, “that our Pickle Parlor will be the first of its kind in the United States. When completely organized it is our plan to sell all kinds of quality pickles—apple pickles, beet pickles and various mixtures. But at the start we will specialize in cucumber pickles. I hope you will give us a trial, Mr. Blynn. Pickles is pickles for the most part, but you’ll always get preferred pickles when you deal with us. Even your wife, excellent cook as she no doubt is, will be unable to make better pickles than ours. And to serve with those tasty party sandwiches, which mean so much to an experienced hostess, who would want to use any pickle except the perfect pickles that are the fame of Poppy’s Pickle Parlor? As a matter of[14] fact, we expect to get a corner on the whole pickle business of the town. And later on we may branch out and sprinkle a chain of Pickle Parlors all over the state.”

[14]

“I swan!” the cashier stared. “I swan!”

A jeering laugh followed us out of the bank, for young Pennykorn had come out of his grandfather’s office in time to overhear Poppy’s pickle oration.

“Well,” I grinned at my chum, when we were in the street, “we’re getting a lot of that ‘laughed-at’ recognition that you talked about. So you ought to be happy.”

“A Pickle Parlor!” smarty hooted after us from the door of his grandfather’s bank. “A Pickle Parlor! Haw! haw! haw!”

“Jerry,” came solemnly, “do you know what I wish?”

“That you could coax him into an alley and punch his face?”

“Oh, no! I wish I could make him come into our store and beg us to sell him some of our pickles.”

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