it.’ Mr Chris, who took all bawlings-out with a martyred shrug, merely said: ‘Maybe a pie is lousy, but what you expect, times like these now? If he no eat, see me, I hokay a new check.’ Mildred opened her mouth to take Ida’s side, and hotly proclaim that a new check wouldn’t make the pie taste any better. But at that moment it flashed through her mind that perhaps the real remedy was to get the pie contract herself. With the chance to make these precious dollars, her whole attitude changed. She knew she had to capture Ida, and not only Ida, but everybody else in the place.
That afternoon she was rather more helpful to the other girls than strict ethics demanded, and later, at lunch, sat down with them and got sociable. Meanwhile, she reflected what she was going to do about Ida. She was working that evening, and after the place closed, noticed Ida hurrying out with a glance at the clock, as though she might be catching a bus. Holding the dooropen, she asked: ‘Which way do you go, Ida? Maybe I could give you a lift.’
‘
You
got a car?’
‘Anyway, it goes.’
‘Me, I live on Vermont. Up near Franklin.’
‘Why it’s right on my way. I live in Glendale.’
The iciness was gone by the time they climbed in the car. As they parted, Mildred asked Ida if she’d like her to stop by and pick her up, on the way over in the morning. From then on Ida had a ride, and Mildred had a better station, and more importantly, she had Ida’s ear, with no possible interruptions, for a considerable time every day. They became bosom friends, and somehow the talk always got around to pies. Ida was bitter indeed at the product Mr Chris offered his customers, and Mildred listened sympathetically. And then one night she innocently inquired: ‘What does he pay for those pies, Ida?’
‘If he pays two bits, he’s being swindled.’
‘Yes, but
how
much?’
‘I don’t know . . . Why?’
‘I make pies. And if he pays anything at all, I’d meet the price and make him some that people would really want to eat. I’d make him some that would be a feature.’
‘Could you do it, honest?’
‘I sell them all the time.’
‘Then I’ll find out what he pays.’
From then on, pies became a feverish conspiracy between Mildred and Ida, and one Sunday Mildred drove over to Ida’s with a fine, wet, beautifully-made huckleberry pie. Ida was married, to a former plasterer not working at the moment, and Mildred suspected that a pie might help with the Sunday night supper. Next day, during the luncheon rush, while Mr Chris had stepped over to the bank to get more change, Ida stopped Mildred in the aisle, and said in a hoarse stage whisper: ‘He pays a straight thirty-five cents for them and takes three dozen a week.’
‘Thanks.’
That night, Ida was full of the information she had filched from the file, and on Mildred’s calculation that she could furnishpies at thirty-five cents, she became masterful. ‘You leave it to me, Mildred. Just leave it to me. You won’t have to say one word, I’ve been knowing it all along I had to have a showdown about them pies, and now it’s coming. Just leave it all to me.’
The showdown, next morning, was a little noisier than Mildred had expected. Mr Chris said he had dealt with the Handy Baking Company for years, and wasn’t going to change, and Ida said he’d been losing customers for years too, and didn’t have sense enough to know it. And besides, Ida went on, here’s a girl that makes grand pies, and what was the matter, didn’t he want customers? Mr Chris said not to bother him, he was busy. Ida said look at the variety she’s got, cherry, huckleberry, strawberry—
‘No chilly, no hooklabilly, no strawbilly!’ Mr Chris fairly shouted his emphasis. ‘All a pieces fall down in a juice, waste half a pie, no good! Appliss, poomkin, limmon – no other kind, won’t have’m.’
At this Ida went into the dining-room, beckoning Mildred after her. When they were alone she
That afternoon she was rather more helpful to the other girls than strict ethics demanded, and later, at lunch, sat down with them and got sociable. Meanwhile, she reflected what she was going to do about Ida. She was working that evening, and after the place closed, noticed Ida hurrying out with a glance at the clock, as though she might be catching a bus. Holding the dooropen, she asked: ‘Which way do you go, Ida? Maybe I could give you a lift.’
‘
You
got a car?’
‘Anyway, it goes.’
‘Me, I live on Vermont. Up near Franklin.’
‘Why it’s right on my way. I live in Glendale.’
The iciness was gone by the time they climbed in the car. As they parted, Mildred asked Ida if she’d like her to stop by and pick her up, on the way over in the morning. From then on Ida had a ride, and Mildred had a better station, and more importantly, she had Ida’s ear, with no possible interruptions, for a considerable time every day. They became bosom friends, and somehow the talk always got around to pies. Ida was bitter indeed at the product Mr Chris offered his customers, and Mildred listened sympathetically. And then one night she innocently inquired: ‘What does he pay for those pies, Ida?’
‘If he pays two bits, he’s being swindled.’
‘Yes, but
how
much?’
‘I don’t know . . . Why?’
‘I make pies. And if he pays anything at all, I’d meet the price and make him some that people would really want to eat. I’d make him some that would be a feature.’
‘Could you do it, honest?’
‘I sell them all the time.’
‘Then I’ll find out what he pays.’
From then on, pies became a feverish conspiracy between Mildred and Ida, and one Sunday Mildred drove over to Ida’s with a fine, wet, beautifully-made huckleberry pie. Ida was married, to a former plasterer not working at the moment, and Mildred suspected that a pie might help with the Sunday night supper. Next day, during the luncheon rush, while Mr Chris had stepped over to the bank to get more change, Ida stopped Mildred in the aisle, and said in a hoarse stage whisper: ‘He pays a straight thirty-five cents for them and takes three dozen a week.’
‘Thanks.’
That night, Ida was full of the information she had filched from the file, and on Mildred’s calculation that she could furnishpies at thirty-five cents, she became masterful. ‘You leave it to me, Mildred. Just leave it to me. You won’t have to say one word, I’ve been knowing it all along I had to have a showdown about them pies, and now it’s coming. Just leave it all to me.’
The showdown, next morning, was a little noisier than Mildred had expected. Mr Chris said he had dealt with the Handy Baking Company for years, and wasn’t going to change, and Ida said he’d been losing customers for years too, and didn’t have sense enough to know it. And besides, Ida went on, here’s a girl that makes grand pies, and what was the matter, didn’t he want customers? Mr Chris said not to bother him, he was busy. Ida said look at the variety she’s got, cherry, huckleberry, strawberry—
‘No chilly, no hooklabilly, no strawbilly!’ Mr Chris fairly shouted his emphasis. ‘All a pieces fall down in a juice, waste half a pie, no good! Appliss, poomkin, limmon – no other kind, won’t have’m.’
At this Ida went into the dining-room, beckoning Mildred after her. When they were alone she
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