“Is it?” Johnny asked. “So what about the aluminum pot? Where does that come in?”
The salesman looked discomfited. “I was coming to that. I merely wanted to impress on your minds the real bargain you were going to get in this extract deal and then I was going to bowl you over with the clincher. This genuine nonstain, nonrusting, nonbreakable, nonwearing aluminum chicken fryer, yours with the compliments of the Four Star Extract Company. Yes, sir, gentlemen, the whole works, a sixteen-ounce bottle of lemon extract, an eight-ounce bottle of vanilla extract and this beautiful, magnificent chicken fryer, all for the paltry sum of ninety-nine cents… Think of it, gentlemen, this amazing value for only ninety-nine cents…”
“I am thinking of it,” Johnny said.
“It’s a sale, then? You’ll buy?”
Johnny shrugged. “When we get home… maybe. You see, Grandma runs the house. But… we’ll put in a word, won’t we, Sam?”
Sam scowled. “Yeah, sure. When we get home.”
“That’s splendid,” said the direct salesman. “I’ll take you up on that. How far ahead do you live?”
“Oh, up a little ways,” Johnny replied.
“A mile; two miles?”
“Little farther than that. I’ll point out the place when we get there.”
The direct salesman frowned. “Well, are you in a hurry? ’Cause if you aren’t, I’d like to stop at that farmhouse up there, you know. Save me coming back.”
“Sure, sure,” Johnny said, easily. “No use passing up business, just because we’re along. Go right ahead and stop…”
Sam’s eyes were rolling frantically, but Johnny shot him a look of caution.
The house ahead was a log cabin, with mud plastered into the chinks. John was relieved to see that no telephone wire ran from the road to the house. Nevertheless, when the peddler climbed down from the wagon, he got down with him. He wanted to make sure the man said nothing to the woman, that she could relay along.
He followed leisurely behind the peddler as the man made his way toward the door of the farmhouse.
A faded, tired-looking woman came out of the house as they approached. The peddler immediately went into his act.
“Good afternoon, Madam. My name is Clarence Hackett and I’m representing the Four Star Extract Company. You’ve heard of our firm, of course. The makers of the finest, imported domestic cooking and flavoring extracts. Used by housewives everywhere. This is it right here, Madam…” He went on with his patter, very much as he’d given it to Johnny and Sam in the wagon. When he finished, the woman’s eyes lingered on the shiny, aluminum chicken fryer, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mister, but I ain’t got no money.”
“But, Madam,” Clarence Hackett persisted, “it’s only ninety-nine cents. Surely, you have that much…”
“No, I ain’t, Mister,” the woman said, sadly. “We’re poor people here. I’d sure like to have that there chicken fryer, but I can’t buy it. Not today.”
Clarence Hackett began to frown, but Johnny Fletcher said, smoothly: “Madam, I see you have some chickens. Leghorns, too. I’ll bet they lay a good many eggs.”
“They do, that,” the farm woman said, “but eggs are way down, only eighteen cents a dozen.”
“That’s not very much, is it? Well, they’ll undoubtedly go much higher before the winter’s up. I’ll tell you what, Madam, since you like this chicken fryer and the extracts, why don’t we make a trade? Mmm… six dozen eggs come to approximately one dollar, as nearly as we can make it. Why not give us six dozen eggs and we’ll give you this…”
Clarence Hackett began to sputter, but Johnny said, out of the side of his mouth, “I’ll fix it up with you, later,” and the salesman quieted.
The farm woman snapped eagerly at the bargain and in a few minutes Johnny and Clarence Hackett were stowing away a basket of eggs in the wagon and climbing aboard.
“Okay, Mister,” Hackett said. Then, “They’re your eggs. I’ll take the money…”
Johnny nodded. “Swell, soon’s we get home… You find many folks on the back road who’re short of money?”
Hackett scowled. “That’s the trouble with this business. Those who want to buy haven’t got the money. At least, that’s the excuse they give. I’d sell three women out of five if I took eggs and chickens trade, instead of money…”
“Well, why don’t you?”
Hackett blinked. “Huh? Why, what would I do with them?”
“Sell them. There’s a produce dealer in just about every little crossroads town you come to. Get yourself an egg crate and a chicken coop. Suppose it’s a little extra trouble. You’re making on the deal, aren’t you? These six dozen eggs will bring you a dollar and eight cents from any produce dealer. You’d have gotten only ninety-nine cents in cash, if you’d made the sale, which you wouldn’t have in this case.”
Hackett stared at Johnny. “But chickens? Sometimes they haven’t got six dozen eggs, what about chickens? How’d I know when I was making out?”
“Get yourself posted on market prices and carry a scale. If the chicken comes to sixty cents, take two chickens. I’m sure they’d trade with you even, on such a basis. Try it and see…”
“Damned if I don’t! Why — I’ve been lucky to make one sale in ten calls. Taking eggs and chickens, boy, I’ll clean up. I’ll be in the produce business, yeah — but what’s the difference?”
“Then, you’ll take these eggs?”
“Sure, why not? I’ll even deal with you — I mean your grandmother, on the same basis. We ought to be getting there soon, now. Your home, I mean.”
“Not quite,” Johnny said, wryly. “It’s still quite a piece down the road. In fact — we may not get there today.”
“Huh? Where do you live — Minneapolis?”
“Farther than that.”
“New York,” snarled Sam Cragg.
The peddler whistled. “Then what’re you doing away up here? And—” a frown spread across his face — “why the bunk about living up the road?”
“Because we’re hitchhiking,” Johnny said. “It’s customary to tell a pickup you live up the road a piece. You see, old man, we’re in practically the same racket you are. We’re salesmen, too.”
“No wonder you knew how to handle that woman back there. Say, what’s your line?”
“Books. Physical culture. We do a strong-man pitch. Sam here is Young Samson. He breaks belts and chains with his chest and then I sell the suckers books telling them how they can get to be as strong as Young Samson.”
“Well, where’s your outfit?”
“That,” said Johnny, “is why we’re hitchhiking. We haven’t got an outfit. We’ve had a streak of bad luck. Our car went to pieces and we ran out of supplies — and dough. We’re hitchhiking back to New York, now, to get a new stake.”
“You’ll never get there in this wagon,” declared Hackett. “You’d make a lot better time on the concrete roads…”
“And where are they? To tell you the truth, we’re lost.”
“I’ll show you.” Hackett reached under his seat and brought out an automobile road map of the kind given away at gasoline stations. “I’ll show you where we are now… Right about there. Moose Lake, that’s the next town ahead. Not much of a town. But it’s only eight miles to Highway 60, the main drag between Duluth and Minneapolis. You want to make for it.”