Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 163: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

WILLIE OFF THE PICKLE BOAT. and handkerchiefs tucked into their collars, and crazy-looking women, to say nothing of the frowzy kids they stowed away in among their legs. If they had kept to their own part of the lake it wouldn’t have been so bad. But they were all over the place—driving up and down the roads in front of our cottages, nosing their canoes along close up to our waterfront, playing ukuleles and banjos half the night out on the water. More than once, when we started out for a smart party, such as a picnic lunch on Otter Island—when we had college friends up and wanted to put on a decent show for them—these people would get their canoes and kickers mixed right in with ours, so that anybody looking on would think they were actually part of our crowd. You can readily understand how we all felt about it. I talked so much to father on the subject that he finally told me to shut up; he didn’t want to hear any more about the matter. No doubt he felt sensi- tive, and perhaps a bit ashamed of his part in bringing it about. Still, we managed to carry on after a fashion—herding by ourselves and dodging the mob. And in time we might have worked out a satisfactory system if it had not been for the “ Pickle Boat.” You see, with all those people about the lake, there was a great demand for fresh supplies, and a chap named Seastrom fitted out a sixty foot boat with ice boxes and so forth and began to run about the lake with vegetables and meat, and milk and groceries. He carried a line of delicatessen, and pretty soon everybody began to call the Catfish—that was her real name—the pickle _ beat. Before the end of that season—that was summer before last—Seastrom had worked up quite a trade, I understand. My folks and the other families along our part of the shore had been in the habit of bringing all of our supplies out from Cranston. But Seastrom sold good stuff, even if he did charge more, and it came about that prac- tically everybody bought from him. His expenses were not heavy; he had only one helper, and he made a lot of money. AT3 My father said that Seastrom was a wise bird, and that somebody ought to have thought of the stunt sooner. He even asked me why I had not thought of it. Joking- ly, of course. I finished college that year, On the whole, the pickle boat, in itself, was a good thing. It was Seastrom’s helper, the second season, that caused all the trou- ble. When the boat started on her rounds that year the helper’s name was Olsen, but he went off on a bat before the end of the first week, and after Seastrom had strug- gled on alone for a few days he hooked on to a new man—a young fellow, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three—about a year or so older than I. His name was William Spicer, and he came from the Lord knows where. This lad was a weird thing to scan. I think it was Tom Hobart who said that Spicer’s coloring clashed violently with the peaceful green of the background against which he worked. Anyway, it was Tom who named him “ Willie off the Pickle Boat.” And every- body took it up at once, of course. Tom is clever as the devil; everybody says he ought to write. To get back on the rails—Willie’s hair was as red as fire and his complexion sort of freckly blobs. You’ve seen ’em. His nose turned up a little at the end, giving him a sort of fresh appearance. He was a good worker, though, people said. Willing sort of chap and all that. And I am forced to admit that, after the first few times I noticed him, I myself thought him pretty good at his job. No doubt he would have been if he had at- tended to it and to nothing else. (il. Our crowd was quite gay that summer, lots of visitors and all that, you know. Otherwise, I dare say some of the men would have noticed what was going on before they did. But all of a sudden the girls took it into their heads to do the daily shopping for their families instead of leaving the servants COPMICLOOKS (E@)