[Illustration: Exchanging the grip of the third degree]
OLD GORGON GRAHAM
More Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son
_by_ George Horace Lorimer
_With pictures by F.R. Gruger and Martin Justice_
1903
FROM A SON TO HIS FATHER
CONTENTS
I. From John Graham, head of the house of Graham & Company, pork
packers, in Chicago, familiarly known on 'Change as Old Gorgon Graham,
to his son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards.
_The old man is laid up temporarily for repairs, and Pierrepont
has written asking if his father doesn't feel that he is qualified
now to relieve him of some of the burden of active management_
II. From John Graham, at the Schweitzerkasenhof, Carlsbad, to his
son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The head of the lard department has died suddenly, and
Pierrepont has suggested to the old man that there is a silver
lining to that cloud of sorrow_
III. From John Graham, at the Schweitzerkasenhof,
Carlsbad, to his son, Pierrepont, at
the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_A friend of the young man has just presented a letter of
introduction to the old man, and has exchanged a large bunch of
stories for a small roll of bills_
IV. From John Graham, at the Hotel Cecil, London, to his son,
Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The old man has just finished going through the young man's
first report as manager of the lard department, and he finds it
suspiciously good_
V. From John Graham, at the Waldorf-Astoria, New York, to his son,
Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The young man has hinted vaguely of a quarrel between himself
and Helen Heath, who is in New York with her mother, and has
suggested that the old man act as peacemaker_
VI. From John Graham, at the Waldorf-Astoria, New York, to his son,
Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The young man has written describing the magnificent wedding
presents that are being received, and hinting discreetly that it
would not come amiss if he knew what shape the old man's was
going to take, as he needs the money_
VII. From John Graham, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago, to his son,
Pierrepont, at Yemassee-on-the-Tallahassee.
_The young man is now in the third quarter of the honeymoon, and
the old man has decided that it is time to bring him fluttering
down to earth_
VIII. From John Graham, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago, to his son,
Pierrepont, at Yemassee-on-the-Tallahassee.
_In replying to his father's hint that it is time to turn his
thoughts from love to lard, the young man has quoted a French
sentence, and the old man has been both pained and puzzled by
it_
IX. From John Graham, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago, to his son,
Pierrepont, care of Graham & Company's brokers, Atlanta.
_Following the old man's suggestion, the young man has rounded
out the honeymoon into a harvest moon, and is sending in some
very satisfactory orders to the house_
X. From John Graham, at Mount Clematis, Michigan, to his son,
Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The young man has done famously during the first year of his
married life, and the old man has decided to give him a more
important position_
XI. From John Graham, at Mount Clematis, Michigan, to his son,
Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The young man has sent the old man a dose of his own medicine,
advice, and he is proving himself a good doctor by taking it_
XII. From John Graham, at Magnolia Villa, on the Florida Coast, to his
son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The old man has started back to Nature, but he hasn't gone
quite far enough to lose sight of his business altogether_
XIII. From John Graham, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago, to his son,
Pierrepont, care of Graham & Company, Denver.
_The young man has been offered a large interest in a big thing
at a small price, and he has written asking the old man to lend
him the price_
XIV. From John Graham, at the Omaha branch of Graham & Company, to his
son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago.
_The old man has been advised by wire of the arrival of a
prospective partner, and that the mother, the son, and the
business are all doing well_
No. 1
From John Graham, head of the house of Graham & Company, pork packers,
in Chicago, familiarly known on 'Change as Old Gorgon Graham, to his
son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards. The old man is laid up
temporarily for repairs, and Pierrepont has written asking if his
father doesn't feel that he is qualified now to relieve him of some of
the burden of active management.
I
CARLSBAD, October 4, 189-.
_Dear Pierrepont_: I'm sorry you ask so many questions that you
haven't a right to ask, because you put yourself in the position of
the inquisitive bull-pup who started out to smell the third rail on
the trolley right-of-way--you're going to be full of information in a
minute.
In the first place, it looks as if business might be pretty good this
fall, and I'm afraid you'll have your hands so full in your place as
assistant manager of the lard department that you won't have time to
run my job, too.
Then I don't propose to break any quick-promotion records with you,
just because you happened to be born into a job with the house. A fond
father and a fool son hitch up into a bad team, and a good business
makes a poor family carryall. Out of business hours I like you better
than any one at the office, but in them there are about twenty men
ahead of you in my affections. The way for you to get first place is
by racing fair and square, and not by using your old daddy as a
spring-board from which to jump over their heads. A man's son is
entitled to a chance in his business, but not to a cinch.
It's been my experience that when an office begins to look like a
family tree, you'll find worms tucked away snug and cheerful in most
of the apples. A fellow with an office full of relatives is like a sow
with a litter of pigs--apt to get a little thin and peaked as the
others fat up. A receiver is next of kin to a business man's
relatives, and after they are all nicely settled in the office they're
not long in finding a job for him there, too. I want you to get this
firmly fixed in your mind, because while you haven't many relatives to
hire, if you ever get to be the head of the house, you'll no doubt
marry a few with your wife.
For every man that the Lord makes smart enough to help himself, He
makes two who have to be helped. When your two come to you for jobs,
pay them good salaries to keep out of the office. Blood is thicker
than water, I know, but when it's the blood of your wife's second
cousin out of a job, it's apt to be thicker than molasses--and
stickier than glue when it touches a good thing. After you have found
ninety-nine sound reasons for hiring a man, it's all right to let his
relationship to you be the hundredth. It'll be the only bad reason in
the bunch.
I simply mention this in passing, because, as I have said, you ain't
likely to be hiring men for a little while yet. But so long as the
subject is up, I might as well add that when I retire it will be to
the cemetery. And I should advise you to anchor me there with a pretty
heavy monument, because it wouldn't take more than two such statements
of manufacturing cost as I have just received from your department to
bring me back from the graveyard to the Stock Yards on the jump. And
until I do retire you don't want to play too far from first base. The
man at the bat will always strike himself out quick enough if he has
forgotten how to find the pitcher's curves, so you needn't worry about
that. But you want to be ready all the time in case he should bat a
few hot ones in your direction.
Some men are like oak leaves--they don't know when they're dead, but
still hang right on; and there are others who let go before anything
has really touched them. Of course, I may be in the first class, but
you can be dead sure that I don't propose to get into the second, even
though I know a lot of people say I'm an old hog to keep right along
working after I've made more money than I know how to spend, and more
than I could spend if I knew how. It's a mighty curious thing how many
people think that if a man isn't spending his money their way he isn't
spending it right, and that if he isn't enjoying himself according to
their tastes he can't be having a good time. They believe that money
ought to loaf; I believe that it ought to work. They believe that
money ought to go to the races and drink champagne; I believe that it
ought to go to the office and keep sober.
When a man makes a specialty of knowing how some other fellow ought to
spend his money, he usually thinks in millions and works for hundreds.
There's only one poorer hand at figures than these over-the-left
financiers, and he's the fellow who inherits the old man's dollars
without his sense. When a fortune comes without calling, it's apt to
leave without asking. Inheriting money is like being the second
husband of a Chicago grass-widow--mighty uncertain business, unless a
fellow has had a heap of experience. There's no use explaining when
I'm asked why I keep on working, because fellows who could put that
question wouldn't understand the answer. You could take these men and
soak their heads overnight in a pailful of ideas, and they wouldn't
absorb anything but the few loose cuss-words that you'd mixed in for
flavoring. They think that the old boys have corralled all the chances
and have tied up the youngsters where they can't get at them; when the
truth is that if we all simply quit work and left them the whole range
to graze over, they'd bray to have their fodder brought to them in
bales, instead of starting out to hunt the raw material, as we had to.
When an ass gets the run of the pasture he finds thistles.
I don't mind owning up to you, though, that I don't hang on because
I'm indispensable to the business, but because business is
indispensable to me. I don't take much stock in this indispensable man
idea, anyway. I've never had one working for me, and if I had I'd fire
him, because a fellow who's as smart as that ought to be in business
for himself; and if he doesn't get a chance to start a new one, he's
just naturally going to eat up yours. Any man can feel reasonably well
satisfied if he's sure that there's going to be a hole to look at when
he's pulled up by the roots.
I started business in a shanty, and I've expanded it into half a mile
of factories; I began with ten men working for me, and I'll quit with
10,000; I found the American hog in a mud-puddle, without a beauty
spot on him except the curl in his tail, and I'm leaving him nicely
packed in fancy cans and cases, with gold medals hung all over him.
But after I've gone some other fellow will come along and add a
post-graduate course in pork packing, and make what I've done look
like a country school just after the teacher's been licked. And I want
you to be that fellow. For the present, I shall report at the office
as usual, because I don't know any other place where I can get ten
hours' fun a day, year in and year out.
After forty years of close acquaintance with it, I've found that work
is kind to its friends and harsh to its enemies. It pays the fellow
who dislikes it his exact wages, and they're generally pretty small;
but it gives the man who shines up to it all the money he wants and
throws in a heap of fun and satisfaction for good measure.
A broad-gauged merchant is a good deal like our friend Doc Graver,
who'd cut out the washerwoman's appendix for five dollars, but would
charge a thousand for showing me mine--he wants all the money that's
coming to him, but he really doesn't give a cuss how much it is, just
so he gets the appendix.
I've never taken any special stock in this modern theory that no
fellow over forty should be given a job, or no man over sixty allowed
to keep one. Of course, there's a dead-line in business, just as there
is in preaching, and fifty's a good, convenient age at which to draw
it; but it's been my experience that there are a lot of dead ones on
both sides of it. When a man starts out to be a fool, and keeps on
working steady at his trade, he usually isn't going to be any Solomon
at sixty. But just because you see a lot of bald-headed sinners lined
up in the front row at the show, you don't want to get humorous with
every bald-headed man you meet, because the first one you tackle may
be a deacon. And because a fellow has failed once or twice, or a dozen
times, you don't want to set him down as a failure--unless he takes
failing too easy. No man's a failure till he's dead or loses his
courage, and that's the same thing. Sometimes a fellow that's been
batted all over the ring for nineteen rounds lands on the solar plexus
of the proposition he's tackling in the twentieth. But you can have a
regiment of good business qualities, and still fail without courage,
because he's the colonel, and he won't stand for any weakening at a
critical time.
I learned a long while ago not to measure men with a foot-rule, and
not to hire them because they were young or old, or pretty or homely,
though there are certain general rules you want to keep in mind. If
you were spending a million a year without making money, and you hired
a young man, he'd be apt to turn in and double your expenses to make
the business show a profit, and he'd be a mighty good man; but if you
hired an old man, he'd probably cut your expenses to the bone and show
up the money saved on the profit side; and he'd be a mighty good man,
too. I hire both and then set the young man to spending and the old
man to watching expenses.
Of course, the chances are that a man who hasn't got a good start at
forty hasn't got it in him, but you can't run a business on the law of
averages and have more than an average business. Once an old fellow
who's just missed everything he's sprung at gets his hooks in, he's a
tiger to stay by the meat course. And I've picked up two or three of
these old man-eaters in my time who are drawing pretty large salaries
with the house right now.
Whenever I hear any of this talk about carting off old fellows to the
glue factory, I always think of Doc Hoover and the time they tried the
"dead-line-at-fifty" racket on him, though he was something over
eighty when it happened.
After I left Missouri, Doc stayed right along, year after year, in the
old town, handing out hell to the sinners in public, on Sundays, and
distributing corn-meal and side-meat to them on the quiet, week-days.
He was a boss shepherd, you bet, and he didn't stand for any church rows
or such like nonsense among his sheep. When one of them got into trouble
the Doc was always on hand with his crook to pull him out, but let an old
ram try to start any stampede-and-follow-the-leader-over-the-precipice
foolishness, and he got the sharp end of the stick.
There was one old billy-goat in the church, a grocer named Deacon
Wiggleford, who didn't really like the Elder's way of preaching.
Wanted him to soak the Amalekites in his sermons, and to leave the
grocery business alone. Would holler Amen! when the parson got after
the money-changers in the Temple, but would shut up and look sour when
he took a crack at the short-weight prune-sellers of the nineteenth
century. Said he "went to church to hear the simple Gospel preached,"
and that may have been one of the reasons, but he didn't want it
applied, because there wasn't any place where the Doc could lay it on
without cutting him on the raw. The real trouble with the Deacon was
that he'd never really got grace, but only a pretty fair imitation.
Well, one time after the Deacon got back from his fall trip North to
buy goods, he tried to worry the Doc by telling him that all the
ministers in Chicago were preaching that there wasn't any super-heated
hereafter, but that each man lived through his share of hell right
here on earth. Doc's face fell at first, but he cheered up mightily
after nosing it over for a moment, and allowed it might be so; in
fact, that he was sure it was so, as far as those fellows were
concerned--they lived in Chicago. And next Sunday he preached hell so
hot that the audience fairly sweat.
He wound up his sermon by deploring the tendency to atheism which he
had noticed "among those merchants who had recently gone up with the
caravans to Babylon for spices" (this was just his high-toned way of
describing Deacon Wiggleford's trip to Chicago in a day-coach for
groceries), and hoped that the goods which they had brought back were
better than the theology. Of course, the old folks on the mourners'
bench looked around to see how the Deacon was taking it, and the
youngsters back on the gigglers' bench tittered, and everybody was
happy but the Deacon. He began laying for the Doc right there. And
without meaning to, it seems that I helped his little game along.
Doc Hoover used to write me every now and then, allowing that hams
were scarcer in Missouri and more plentiful in my packing-house than
they had any right to be, if the balance of trade was to be
maintained. Said he had the demand and I had the supply, and he wanted
to know what I was going to do about it. I always shipped back a
tierce by fast freight, because I was afraid that if I tried to argue
the point he'd come himself and take a car-load. He made a specialty
of seeing that every one in town had enough food and enough religion,
and he wasn't to be trifled with when he discovered a shortage of
either. A mighty good salesman was lost when Doc got religion.
Well, one day something more than ten years ago he wrote in,
threatening to make the usual raid on my smoke-house, and when I
answered, advising him that the goods were shipped, I inclosed a
little check and told him to spend it on a trip to the Holy Land which
I'd seen advertised. He backed and filled over going at first, but
finally the church took it out of his hands and arranged for a young
fellow not long out of the Theological Seminary to fill the pulpit,
and Doc put a couple of extra shirts in a grip and started off. I
heard the rest of the story from Si Perkins next fall, when he brought
on a couple of car-loads of steers to Chicago, and tried to stick me
half a cent more than the market for them on the strength of our
having come from the same town.
It seems that the young man who took Doc's place was one of these
fellows with pink tea instead of red blood in his veins. Hadn't any
opinions except your opinions until he met some one else. Preached
pretty, fluffy little things, and used eau de Cologne on his language.
Never hit any nearer home than the unspeakable Turk, and then he was
scared to death till he found out that the dark-skinned fellow under
the gallery was an Armenian. (The Armenian left the church anyway,
because the unspeakable Turk hadn't been soaked hard enough to suit
him.) Didn't preach much from the Bible, but talked on the cussedness
of Robert Elsmere and the low-downness of Trilby. Was always wanting
everybody to lead the higher life, without ever really letting on what
it was, or at least so any one could lay hold of it by the tail. In
the end, I reckon he'd have worked around to Hoyle's games--just to
call attention to their wickedness, of course.
The Pillars of the church, who'd been used to getting their religion
raw from Doc Hoover, didn't take to the bottle kindly, and they all
fell away except Deacon Wiggleford. He and the youngsters seemed to
cotton to the new man, and just before Doc Hoover was due to get back
they called a special meeting, and retired the old man with the title
of pastor emeritus. They voted him two donation parties a year as long
as he lived, and elected the Higher Lifer as the permanent pastor of
the church. Deacon Wiggleford suggested the pastor emeritus extra. He
didn't quite know what it meant, but he'd heard it in Chicago, and it
sounded pretty good, and as if it ought to be a heap of satisfaction
to a fellow who was being fired. Besides, it didn't cost anything, and
the Deacon was one of those Christians who think that you ought to be
able to save a man's immortal soul for two bits.
The Pillars were mighty hot next day when they heard what had
happened, and were for calling another special meeting; but two or
three of them got together and decided that it was best to lay low and
avoid a row until the Doc got back.
He struck town the next week with a jugful of water from the River
Jordan in one hand and a gripful of paper-weights made of wood from
the Mount of Olives in the other. He was chockful of the joy of having
been away and of the happiness of getting back, till they told him
about the Deacon's goings on, and then he went sort of gray and old,
and sat for a minute all humped up.
Si Perkins, who was one of the unregenerate, but a mighty good friend
of the Doc's, was standing by, and he blurted right out: "You say the
word, Doc, and we'll make the young people's society ride this rooster
out of town on a rail."
That seemed to wake up the Elder a bit, for he shook his head and
said, "No nonsense now, you Si"; and then, as he thought it over, he
began to bristle and swell up; and when he stood it was to his full
six feet four, and it was all man. You could see that he was boss of
himself again, and when a man like old Doc Hoover is boss of himself
he comes pretty near being boss of every one around him. He sent word
to the Higher Lifer by one of the Pillars that he reckoned he was
counting on him to preach a farewell sermon the next Sunday, and the
young man, who'd been keeping in the background till whatever was
going to drop, dropped, came around to welcome him in person. But
while the Doc had been doing a heap of praying for grace, he didn't
propose to take any chances, and he didn't see him. And he wouldn't
talk to any one else, just smiled in an aggravating way, though
everybody except Deacon Wiggleford and the few youngsters who'd made
the trouble called to remonstrate against his paying any attention to
their foolishness.
The whole town turned out the next Sunday to see the Doc step down. He
sat beside the Higher Lifer on the platform, and behind them were the
six deacons. When it came time to begin the services the Higher Lifer
started to get up, but the Doc was already on his feet, and he
whispered to him:
"Set down, young man"; and the young man sat. The Doc had a way of
talking that didn't need a gun to back it up.
The old man conducted the services right through, just as he always
did, except that when he'd remembered in his prayer every one in
America and had worked around through Europe to Asia Minor, he
lingered a trifle longer over the Turks than usual, and the list of
things which he seemed to think they needed brought the Armenian back
into the fold right then and there.
[Illustration: "We'll make the young people's society ride this
rooster out of town on a rail"]
By the time the Doc got around to preaching, Deacon Wiggleford was
looking like a fellow who'd bought a gold brick, and the Higher Lifer
like the brick. Everybody else felt and looked as if they were
attending the Doc's funeral, and, as usual, the only really calm and
composed member of the party was the corpse.
"You will find the words of my text," Doc began, "in the revised
version of the works of William Shakespeare, in the book--I mean
play--of Romeo and Juliet, Act Two, Scene Two: 'Parting is such sweet
sorrow that I shall say good-night till it be morrow,'" and while the
audience was pulling itself together he laid out that text in four
heads, each with six subheads. Began on partings, and went on a still
hunt through history and religion for them. Made the audience part with
Julius Caesar with regret, and had 'em sniffling at saying good-by to
Napoleon and Jeff Davis. Made 'em feel that they'd lost their friends
and their money, and then foreclosed the mortgage on the old homestead
in a this-is-very-sad-but-I-need-the-money tone. In fact, when he had
finished with Parting and was ready to begin on Sweet Sorrow, he had
not only exhausted the subject, but left considerable of a deficit in
it.
They say that the hour he spent on Sweet Sorrow laid over anything
that the town had ever seen for sadness. Put 'em through every stage
of grief from the snuffles to the snorts. Doc always was a pretty
noisy preacher, but he began work on that head with
soft-pedal-tremolo-stop preaching and wound up with a peroration like
a steamboat explosion. Started with his illustrations dying of
consumption and other peaceful diseases, and finished up with railroad
wrecks. He'd been at it two hours when he got through burying the
victims of his last illustration, and he was just ready to tackle his
third head with six subheads. But before he took the plunge he looked
at his watch and glanced up sort of surprised:
"I find," he said, "that we have consumed more time with these
introductory remarks than I had intended. We would all, I know, like
to say good-by till to-morrow, did our dear young brother's plans
permit, but alas! he leaves us on the 2:17. Such is life; to-day we
are here, to-morrow we are in St. Louis, to which our young friend
must return. Usually, I don't approve of traveling on the Sabbath, but
in a case like this, where the reasons are very pressing, I will lay
aside my scruples, and with a committee of deacons which I have
appointed see our pastor emeritus safely off."
The Doc then announced that he would preach a series of six Sunday
night sermons on the six best-selling books of the month, and
pronounced the benediction while the Higher Lifer and Deacon
Wiggleford were trying to get the floor. But the committee of deacons
had 'em by the coat-tails, and after listening to their soothing
arguments the Higher Lifer decided to take the 2:17 as per schedule.
When he saw the whole congregation crowding round the Doc, and the
women crying over him and wanting to take him home to dinner, he
understood that there'd been a mistake somewhere and that he was the
mistake.
Of course the Doc never really preached on the six best-selling books.
That was the first and last time he ever found a text in anything but
the Bible. Si Perkins wanted to have Deacon Wiggleford before the
church on charges. Said he'd been told that this pastor emeritus
business was Latin, and it smelt of popery to him; but the Doc
wouldn't stand for any foolishness. Allowed that the special meeting
was illegal, and that settled it; and he reckoned they could leave the
Deacon's case to the Lord. But just the same, the small boys used to
worry Wiggleford considerably by going into his store and yelling:
"Mother says she doesn't want any more of those pastor emeritus eggs,"
or, "She'll send it back if you give us any more of that dead-line
butter."
If the Doc had laid down that Sunday, there'd probably have been a
whole lot of talk and tears over his leaving, but in the end, the
Higher Lifer or some other fellow would have had his job, and he'd
have become one of those nice old men for whom every one has a lot of
respect but no special use. But he kept right on, owning his pulpit
and preaching in it, until the Great Call was extended to him.
I'm a good deal like the Doc--willing to preach a farewell sermon
whenever it seems really necessary, but some other fellow's.
Your affectionate father,
JOHN GRAHAM.
No. 2
From John Graham, at the Schweitzerkasenhof, Carlsbad, to his son,
Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago. The head of the lard
department has died suddenly, and Pierrepont has suggested to the old
man that there is a silver lining to that cloud of sorrow.
II
CARLSBAD, October 20, 189-.
_Dear Pierrepont_: I've cabled the house that you will manage the lard
department, or try to, until I get back; but beyond that I can't see.
Four weeks doesn't give you much time to prove that you are the best
man in the shop for the place, but it gives you enough to prove that
you ain't. You've got plenty of rope. If you know how to use it you
can throw your steer and brand it; if you don't, I suppose I won't
find much more than a grease-spot where the lard department was, when
I get back to the office. I'm hopeful, but I'm a good deal like the
old deacon back in Missouri who thought that games of chance were
sinful, and so only bet on sure things--and I'm not betting.
Naturally, when a young fellow steps up into a big position, it breeds
jealousy among those whom he's left behind and uneasiness among those
to whom he's pulled himself up. Between them he's likely to be
subjected to a lot of petty annoyances. But he's in the fix of a dog
with fleas who's chasing a rabbit--if he stops to snap at the tickling
on his tail, he's going to lose his game dinner.
Even as temporary head of the lard department you're something of a
pup, and where there's dog there's fleas. You've simply got to get
used to them, and have sense enough to know that they're not eating
you up when they're only nibbling a little at your hide. And you don't
want to let any one see that a flea-bite can worry you, either. A pup
that's squirming and wriggling and nosing around the seat of the
trouble whenever one of his little friends gets busy, is kicked out
into the cold, sad night in the end. But a wise dog lies before the
fire with a droop in his ear and a dreamy look in his eyes until it
gets to the point where he can't stand 'em any longer. Then he sneaks
off under the dining-room table and rolls them out into the carpet.
There are two breeds of little things in business--those that you
can't afford to miss and those that you can't afford to notice. The
first are the details of your own work and those of the men under you.
The second are the little tricks and traps that the envious set around
you. A trick is always so low that a high-stepper can walk right over
it.
When a fellow comes from the outside to an important position with a
house he generally gets a breathing-space while the old men spar
around taking his measure and seeing if he sizes up to his job. They
give him the benefit of the doubt, and if he shows up strong and
shifty on his feet they're apt to let him alone. But there isn't any
doubt in your case; everybody's got you sized up, or thinks he has,
and those who've been over you will find it hard to accept you as an
equal, and those who've been your equals will be slow to regard you as
a superior. When you've been Bill to a man, it comes awkward for him
to call you mister. He may do it to your face, but you're always Bill
again when you've turned the corner.
Of course, everybody's going to say you're an accident. Prove it. Show
that you're a regular head-on collision when anything gets in your
way. They're going to say that you've got a pull. Prove it--by taking
up all the slack that they give you. Back away from controversy, but
stand up stubborn as a mule to the fellow who's hunting trouble. I
believe in ruling by love, all right, but it's been my experience that
there are a lot of people in the world whom you've got to make
understand that you're ready to heave a brick if they don't come when
you call them. These men mistake kindness for weakness and courtesy
for cowardice. Of course, it's the exception when a fellow of this
breed can really hurt you, but the exception is the thing that you
always want to keep your eye skinned for in business. When it's good
growing weather and the average of the crop is ninety-five, you should
remember that old Satan may be down in Arizona cooking up a sizzler
for the cornbelt; or that off Cuba-ways, where things get excited
easy, something special in the line of tornadoes may be ghost-dancing
and making ready to come North to bust you into bits, if it catches
you too far away from the cyclone cellar. When a boy's face shines
with soap, look behind his ears.
Up to this point you've been seeing business from the seat of the man
who takes orders; now you're going to find out what sort of a snap the
fellow who gives them has. You're not even exchanging one set of
worries for another, because a good boss has to carry all his own and
to share those of his men. He must see without spying; he must hear
without sneaking; he must know without asking. It takes a pretty good
guesser to be a boss.
The first banana-skin which a lot of fellows step on when they're put
over other men is a desire to be too popular. Of course, it's a nice
thing to have everyone stand up and cheer when your name is mentioned,
but it's mighty seldom that that happens to any one till he's dead.
You can buy a certain sort of popularity anywhere with soft soap and
favors; but you can't buy respect with anything but justice, and
that's the only popularity worth having.
You'll find that this world is so small, and that most men in it think
they're so big, that you can't step out in any direction without
treading on somebody's corns, but unless you keep moving, the fellow
who's in a hurry to get somewhere is going to fetch up on your bunion.
Some men are going to dislike you because you're smooth, and others
because you have a brutal way of telling the truth. You're going to
repel some because they think you're cold, and others will cross the
street when they see you coming because they think you slop over. One
fellow won't like you because you're got curly hair, and another will
size you up as a stiff because you're bald. Whatever line of conduct
you adopt you're bound to make some enemies, but so long as there's a
choice I want you to make yours by being straightforward and just.
You'll have the satisfaction of knowing that every enemy you make by
doing the square thing is a rascal at heart. Don't fear too much the
enemy you make by saying No, nor trust too much the friend you make by
saying Yes.
Speaking of being popular naturally calls to mind the case of a fellow
from the North named Binder, who moved to our town when I was a boy,
and allowed that he was going into the undertaking business. Absalom
Magoffin, who had had all the post-mortem trade of the town for forty
years, was a queer old cuss, and he had some mighty aggravating ways.
Never wanted to talk anything but business. Would buttonhole you on
the street, and allow that, while he wasn't a doctor, he had had to
cover up a good many of the doctor's mistakes in his time, and he
didn't just like your symptoms. Said your looks reminded him of Bill
Shorter, who' went off sudden in the fifties, and was buried by the
Masons with a brass band. Asked if you remembered Bill, and that
peculiar pasty look about his skin. Naturally, this sort of thing
didn't make Ab any too popular, and so Binder got a pretty warm
welcome when he struck town.
He started right out by saying that he didn't see any good reason why
an undertaker should act as if he was the next of kin. Was always
stopping people on the streets to tell them the latest, and yelling
out the point in a horse-laugh. Everybody allowed that jolly old
Binder had the right idea; and that Magoffin might as well shut up
shop. Every one in town wanted to see him officiate at a funeral, and
there was a lot of talk about encouraging new enterprises, but it
didn't come to anything. No one appeared to have any public spirit.
Seemed as if we'd never had a healthier spring than that one. Couldn't
fetch a nigger, even. The most unpopular man in town, Miser Dosher,
came down with pneumonia in December, and every one went around saying
how sad it was that there was no hope, and watching for Binder to
start for the house. But in the end Dosher rallied and "went back on
the town," as Si Perkins put it. Then the Hoskins-Bustard crowds took
a crack at each other one court day, but it was mighty poor shooting.
Ham Hoskins did get a few buckshot in his leg, and that had to come
off, but there were no complications.
By this time Binder, though he still laughed and cracked his jokes,
was beginning to get sort of discouraged. But Si Perkins used to go
round and cheer him up by telling him that it was bound to come his
way in the end, and that when it did come it would come with a rush.
Then, all of a sudden, something happened--yellow jack dropped in from
down New Orleans way, and half the people in town had it inside a week
and the other half were so blamed scared that they thought they had
it. But through it all Binder never once lost his merry, cheery ways.
Luckily it was a mild attack and everybody got well; but it made it
mighty easy for Doc Hoover to bring sinners tinder conviction for a
year to come.
When it was all over Binder didn't have a friend in town. Leaked out
little by little that as soon as one of the men who'd been cheering
for jolly old Binder got yellow jack, the first thing he did was to
make his wife swear that she'd have Magoffin do the planting.
You see, that while a man may think it's all foolishness for an
undertaker to go around solemn and sniffling, he'll be a little slow
about hiring a fellow to officiate at his funeral who's apt to take a
sense of humor to it.
Si Perkins was the last one to get well, and the first time he was
able to walk as far as the store he made a little speech. Wanted to
know if we were going to let a Connecticut Yankee trifle with our
holiest emotions. Thought he ought to be given a chance to crack his
blanked New England jokes in Hades. Allowed that the big locust in
front of Binder's store made an ideal spot for a jolly little funeral.
Of course Si wasn't exactly consistent in this, but, as he used to
say, it's the consistent men who keep the devil busy, because no one's
ever really consistent except in his cussedness. It's been my
experience that consistency is simply a steel hoop around a small
mind--it keeps it from expanding.
Well, Si hadn't more than finished before the whole crowd was off
whooping down the street toward Binder's. As soon as they got in range
of the house they began shooting at the windows and yelling for him to
come out if he was a man, but it appeared that Binder wasn't a
man--leastways, he didn't come out--and investigation showed that he
was streaking it back for Connecticut.
I simply mention this little incident as an example of the fact that
popularity is a mighty uncertain critter and a mighty unsafe one to
hitch your wagon to. It'll eat all the oats you bring it, and then
kick you as you're going out of the stall. It's happened pretty often
in my time that I've seen a crowd pelt a man with mud, go away, and,
returning a few months or a few years later, and finding him still in
the same place, throw bouquets at him. But that, mark you, was because
first and last he was standing in the right place.
It's been my experience that there are more cases of hate at first
sight than of love at first sight, and that neither of them is of any
special consequence. You tend strictly to your job of treating your
men square, without slopping over, and when you get into trouble
there'll be a little bunch to line up around you with their horns down
to keep the wolves from cutting you out of the herd.
Your affectionate father,
JOHN GRAHAM.
No. 3
From John Graham, at the Schweitzerkasenhof, Carlsbad, to his son,
Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards, Chicago. A friend of the young
man has just presented a letter of introduction to the old man, and
has exchanged a large bunch of stories for a small roll of bills.
III
CARLSBAD, October 24, 189-.
_Dear Pierrepont_: Yesterday your old college friend, Clarence, blew
in from Monte Carlo, where he had been spending a few days in the
interests of science, and presented your letter of introduction. Said
he still couldn't understand just how it happened, because he had
figured it out by logarithms and trigonometry and differential
calculus and a lot of other high-priced studies that he'd taken away
from Harvard, and that it was a cinch on paper. Was so sure that he
could have proved his theory right if he'd only had a little more
money that it hardly seemed worth while to tell him that the only
thing he could really prove with his system was old Professor Darwin's
theory that men and monkeys began life in the same cage. It never
struck me before, but I'll bet the Professor got that idea while he
was talking with some of his students.
Personally, I don't know a great deal about gambling, because all I
ever spent for information on the subject was $2.75--my fool horse
broke in the stretch--and that was forty years ago; but first and last
I've heard a lot of men explain how it happened that they hadn't made
a hog-killing. Of course, there must be a winning end to gambling, but
all that these men have been able to tell about is the losing end. And
I gather from their experiences that when a fellow does a little
gambling on the side, it's usually on the wrong side.
The fact of the matter is, that the race-horse, the faro tiger, and
the poker kitty have bigger appetites than any healthy critter has a
right to have; and after you've fed a tapeworm, there's mighty little
left for you. Following the horses may be pleasant exercise at the
start, but they're apt to lead you to the door of the poorhouse or the
jail at the finish.
To get back to Clarence; he took about an hour to dock his cargo of
hard luck, and another to tell me how strange it was that there was no
draft from his London bankers waiting to welcome him. Naturally, I
haven't lived for sixty years among a lot of fellows who've been
trying to drive a cold-chisel between me and my bank account, without
being able to smell a touch coming a long time before it overtakes me,
and Clarence's intentions permeated his cheery conversation about as
thoroughly as a fertilizer factory does a warm summer night. Of
course, he gave me every opportunity to prove that I was a gentleman
and to suggest delicately that I should be glad if he would let me act
as his banker in this sudden emergency, but as I didn't show any signs
of being a gentleman and a banker, he was finally forced to come out
and ask me in coarse commercial words to lend him a hundred. Said it
hurt him to have to do it on such short acquaintance, but I couldn't
see that he was suffering any real pain.
Frankly, I shouldn't have lent Clarence a dollar on his looks or his
story, for they both struck me as doubtful collateral, but so long as
he had a letter from you, asking me to "do anything in my power to
oblige him, or to make his stay in Carlsbad pleasant," I let him have
the money on your account, to which I have written the cashier to
charge it. Of course, I hope Clarence will pay you back, but I think
you will save bookkeeping by charging it off to experience. I've
usually found that these quick, glad borrowers are slow, sad payers.
And when a fellow tells you that it hurts him to have to borrow, you
can bet that the thought of having to pay is going to tie him up into
a bow-knot of pain.
Right here I want to caution you against giving away your signature to
every Clarence and Willie that happens along. When your name is on a
note it stands only for money, but when it's on a letter of
introduction or recommendation it stands for your judgment of ability
and character, and you can't call it in at the end of thirty days,
either. Giving a letter of introduction is simply lending your name
with a man as collateral, and if he's no good you can't have the
satisfaction of redeeming your indorsement, even; and you're
discredited. The first thing that a young merchant must learn is that
his brand must never appear on a note, or a ham, or a man that isn't
good. I reckon that the devil invented the habit of indorsing notes
and giving letters to catch the fellows he couldn't reach with whisky
and gambling.
Of course, letters of introduction have their proper use, but about
nine out of ten of them are simply a license to some Clarence to waste
an hour of your time and to graft on you for the luncheon and cigars.
It's getting so that a fellow who's almost a stranger to me doesn't
think anything of asking for a letter of introduction to one who's a
total stranger. You can't explain to these men, because when you try
to let them down easy by telling them that you haven't had any real
opportunity to know what their special abilities are, they always come
back with an, "Oh! that's all right--just say a word and refer to
anything you like about me."
I give them the letter then, unsealed, and though, of course, they're
not supposed to read it, I have reason to think that they do, because
I've never heard of one of those letters being presented. I use the
same form on all of them, and after they've pumped their thanks into
me and rushed around the corner, they find in the envelope: "This will
introduce Mr. Gallister. While I haven't had the pleasure of any
extended acquaintance with Mr. Gallister, I like his nerve."
It's a mighty curious thing, but a lot of men who have no claim on
you, and who wouldn't think of asking for money, will panhandle both
sides of a street for favors that mean more than money. Of course,
it's the easy thing and the pleasant thing not to refuse, and after
all, most men think, it doesn't cost anything but a few strokes of the
pen, and so they will give a fellow that they wouldn't ordinarily play
on their friends as a practical joke, a nice sloppy letter of
introduction to them; or hand out to a man that they wouldn't give
away as a booby prize, a letter of recommendation in which they crack
him up as having all the qualities necessary for an A1 Sunday-school
superintendent and bank president.
Now that you are a boss you will find that every other man who comes
to your desk is going to ask you for something; in fact, the
difference between being a sub and a boss is largely a matter of
asking for things and of being asked for things. But it's just as one
of those poets said--you can't afford to burn down the glue factory to
stimulate the demand for glue stock, or words to that effect.
Of course, I don't mean by this that I want you to be one of those
fellows who swell out like a ready-made shirt and brag that they "never
borrow and never lend." They always think that this shows that they are
sound, conservative business men, but, as a matter of fact, it simply
stamps them as mighty mean little cusses. It's very superior, I know,
to say that you never borrow, but most men have to at one time or
another, and then they find that the never-borrow-never-lend platform
is a mighty inconvenient one to be standing on. Be just in business and
generous out of it. A fellow's generosity needs a heap of exercise to
keep it in good condition, and the hand that writes out checks gets
cramped easier than the hand that takes them in. You want to keep them
both limber.
While I don't believe in giving with a string tied to every dollar, or
doing up a gift in so many conditions that the present is lost in the
wrappings, it's a good idea not to let most people feel that money can
be had for the asking. If you do, they're apt to go into the asking
business for a living. But these millionaires who give away a hundred
thousand or so, with the understanding that the other fellow will
raise another hundred thousand or so, always remind me of a lot of
boys coaxing a dog into their yard with a hunk of meat, so that they
can tie a tin can to his tail--the pup edges up licking his chops at
the thought of the provisions and hanging his tail at the thought of
the hardware. If he gets the meat, he's got to run himself to death to
get rid of the can.
While we're on this subject of favors I want to impress on you the
importance of deciding promptly. The man who can make up his mind
quick, makes up other people's minds for them. Decision is a sharp
knife that cuts clear and straight and lays bare the fat and the lean;
indecision, a dull one that hacks and tears and leaves ragged edges
behind it. Say yes or no--seldom perhaps. Some people have such
fertile imaginations that they will take a grain of hope and grow a
large definite promise with bark on it overnight, and later, when you
come to pull that out of their brains by the roots, it hurts, and they
holler.
When a fellow asks for a job in your department there may be reasons
why you hate to give him a clear-cut refusal, but tell him frankly
that you see no possibility of placing him, and while he may not like
the taste of the medicine, he swallows it and it's down and forgotten.
But you say to him that you're very sorry your department is full just
now, but that you think a place will come along later and that he
shall have the first call on it, and he goes away with his teeth in a
job. You've simply postponed your trouble for a few weeks or months.
And trouble postponed always has to be met with accrued interest.
Never string a man along in business. It isn't honest and it isn't
good policy. Either's a good reason, but taken together they head the
list of good reasons.
Of course, I don't mean that you want to go rampaging along, trampling
on people's feelings and goring every one who sticks up a head in your
path. But there's no use shilly-shallying and doddering with people
who ask questions and favors they have no right to ask. Don't hurt any
one if you can help it, but if you must, a clean, quick wound heals
soonest.
When you can, it's better to refuse a request by letter. In a letter
you need say only what you choose; in a talk you may have to say more
than you want to say.