_My Dear Father_:
Although I have not succeeded to date in getting far enough from Chicago
to escape the odors of your refinery and have yet to ascertain how a man
looks when he gives an order, I feel that I am going to like being a
drummer. There is a certain independence about it which pleases me.
While I, of course, shall labor early and late in the interests of the
house, there is a great deal in not having a time-keeper staring you in
the face every morning. The call left at the hotel office is sufficient
reminder to me of the flight of time, especially after I have sat up
till 4 A.M. trying to make things come my way. I may not, as you hint,
be cut out by the Lord for a drummer. In fact, I don't believe I was,
for from what I have seen of the species I am of the belief that the
Lord does not number its manufacture among His responsibilities. At all
events it is sufficient for me to know that you, the head of the house,
have selected me as one.
Let me reassure you on one point. I may have looked chesty and important
when I started from Chicago the other morning, but my experience as a
drummer for Graham & Co. has so completely knocked the self-esteem out
of me that I don't believe my hat will ever cock on one side again. It's
all right enough to sit in the office and talk about the big business
you have built, but just get out into the world and stack up against the
fact that you've got to sell our stuff to suspicious buyers or lose your
job, and you'll find yourself a first-class understudy for Moses in
short order.
The first two days out I felt so proud of the house that I added "Graham
& Co." to my name on the hotel register. But I dropped that little
flourish just as soon as I saw that it got me the worst room on the
key-rack and the toughest steak in the dining-room. What on earth have
we been doing to people for the last thirty years that makes them all
down on us? I see that I'm going to have no trouble in making the
concern known; in fact, if I may venture to say so, it seems to be too
well known.
For some reasons I regret leaving the house. Business may go on well
enough in my absence, but it's a mighty poor fiddler who thinks the
orchestra plays as loud as it did before he breaks a string. I thank you
for your hints as to methods in soliciting trade, but I also appreciate
the truth that, after all, the man on the spot must give the decision.
So far, I see no reason for your belief that a fund of anecdote is not
necessary to the commercial traveller. (I may say in passing that I much
prefer this phrase to drummer, although I am prepared to admit that
after I sell a bill of goods I may be ready to accept any title.) Jokes
may not be profitable as the main stock in trade, but they are certainly
essential as a side line.
So far, I have been utterly unable to get up early enough in the morning
to reach a customer before he has fallen into the clutches of one or
more of my competitors, and when I arrive they are usually so hilarious
over funny stories that business--especially serious business, like the
buying of our products--is the thing farthest from their thoughts.
Because a man who wanted to sell you a dog once indulged in flippant,
but you must admit, clever repartee about your needing such things in
your business, you must not draw the inference that the sense of humor
has entirely departed from storekeepers.
Of course the joke must not be on the prospective customer, as was that
of the dog fancier in your case. I found that out to my sorrow the other
day. I had almost persuaded a country grocer to try a couple of pails of
lard and a ham--not munificent, but a beginning--when I tipped the fat
into the fire by being over keen to take a joke. A small boy came
running in with a wad of paper, apparently containing money, clutched in
one fist and a card in the other hand.
"How much is ten pounds of sugar at 5½ cents a pound?" he asked.
"Fifty-five cents," said the grocer.
"And a quarter of a pound of 60-cent tea?"
"Fifteen cents--to your mother"--smiled the grocer.
"And a half peck of potatoes at 28 cents a peck?" asked the boy.
"Fourteen," said the grocer.
"And four cans of tomatoes at 12½ cents each," said the boy, consulting
his list.
"Just fifty cents," said the grocer.
"And six pounds of rice at 3½ cents?"
"Twenty-one cents. Is that all?" asked the grocer, as the boy put his
card in his pocket.
"Yes," said the boy; "what does it all cost?"
The grocer figured with a bit of charcoal on a bag and said: "A dollar
fifty-five. Will you take the package?"
"Nope," said the boy, edging towards the door. "I'm on my way to
school."
"Very well, I'll send it right up," said the grocer, urbanely.
"Wouldn't if I were you," said the boy. "Ma aint at home. She don't want
the stuff, anyhow. That was only my 'rithmetic lesson."
As the lad vanished I laughed and said "bon voyage" to my prospective
order. The worst of it is, the boys say that this story dates back to
Joe Miller's great-grandfather. But it taught me that it is sometimes
wise to be deaf, dumb and blind to the point of a joke.
Unfortunately, I am short on the joke market, and to date have been
unable to meet the keen competition I encounter in this line. Job
Withers, a big-faced, big-voiced chap, who travels for Soper & Co.,
spins yarns with the speed, ease and penetrating quality of a well
greased circular saw. When he goes into a store he looks about, comments
on any changes or improvements that may have occurred since his last
visit, asks the proprietor about his dog, if he has one, and about his
wife, if he has not, sits on a barrel and says: "Did I ever tell you--?"
At that there is a great shuffling of feet and all the store loungers
sit up and take notice. Then he launches into a story and follows it
with another and another. Then, when the boss is wiping away the tears
that come with the laughter, Job pulls out an order blank and, with a
look about the store, says: "I see you're almost all out of--" and he
writes off a list of things. Before the echoes of the laughter have
ceased the order is rolling along towards "the House" in the custody of
a two-cent stamp.
If there is one thing needed more than nerve in this business it is
hypnotism; and in the practical part of this science Job Withers has
Mesmer and Professor Carpenter backed clear over the divide. It's no
trick to sell a man anything he wants, but unfortunately no one ever
wants anything. The Job Witherses see to that by their delicate
attentions in keeping everybody stocked up. A man'll never get the V. H.
C. from "the House" till he learns how to sell goods that his customer
doesn't want, and I tell you, pater, a good swift game of talk--the
right kind--is what gives the shelves and refrigerators of country
stores indigestion. If you pursued a different policy I do not wonder
that when you tried travelling you had, as you hint, to run the last
quarter in record time in order to anticipate a request for your
resignation.
But I have a suspicion that you have not dealt squarely by me. I will be
frank and tell you why. In view of the paucity of my supply of
stories--and nothing, I assure you, but extremity would have induced me
to do it--I overhauled your letters the other day and weeded out the
best of your anecdotes and tried them on some of my intended customers.
It immediately became clear to me why you do not believe in
story-telling as an adjunct to trade. You must have been less
philosophical during your brief stay on the road than you are now,
otherwise you would have realized that the failure of your crop of
anecdotes to yield a harvest does not prove the futility of planting a
different class of seed. The well-known facts concerning _our_ hams do
not demonstrate that there are no good hams in the market.
One thing is sure. I shall send "the House" an order before the week is
out, even if I have to eat the stuff myself. It really can't be worse
than the food I get at some of the hotels. The hotel in the town before
this was a wonder. I asked for a napkin and the table girl said they
used to have them, but the boarders took so many with them that it was
too expensive. I guess they ate them in preference to the food. I told
the girl I'd have a piece of steak and an egg. She returned, cheerful
but empty-handed.
"I am sorry, sir," she lisped, "but cook says the last piece of steak
has been used for a hinge on the landlord's daughter's trunk. She is to
be married to-day," she added, with a smile evidently intended to be
engaging. But I didn't care to be engaged, at least not to her.
"Well, bring an egg and some toast," I said, amiably.
"Sorry, sir," chirped up Bright Eyes, "but cook's just beaten up the
egg. She says you can have your share of it in the meringue pudding at
dinner."
"What _have_ you got, then?" I demanded with some acrimony.
"Hot lamb, cold lamb, roast lamb, and minced lamb," she gurgled. I
subsequently ascertained that they sheared the lamb a few days before
and that the poor innocent caught cold and died.
If they were as strict in their menu in these country hotels as they are
in their rules, it would be all right. No hotel is complete without a
long list of "Don'ts for Guests," plastered on the inside of the door.
Here are a few that appealed to me with especial force:
"Please do not tip the waiters or the porter." (As the waiters did
nothing for me and the porter weighed 285 pounds I conformed to this
rule.)
"In event of fire an alarm will be sounded on the gongs if the night
clerk is awake. The fire-escapes are in the office safe. In case of fire
you can have one after you have paid your bill."
It is hard to get a decent night's rest in these hostelries. If it isn't
one thing it's another. Last Saturday I was so tired that I felt I
wouldn't care if I jumped Sunday right out of the calendar. Sunday
morning I was sleeping beautifully when there was a rap on the door.
"Been't you a goin' to git up?" came a squeaky voice.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Half past seven," was the reply.
"Get up? No, go away," I shouted.
"Breakfast comes in half an hour," said the squeak.
"Don't want any breakfast," I thundered back.
"All right, the other boarders do."
"What in blazes is that to me?" I snarled.
"We want your sheets for tablecloths."
Do not worry. I shall not write long letters to "the House." They will
be as short as my expense account will permit.
Your hungry but hopeful son, P.
P.S. On the dead, now, did my recital of my hotel experiences make you
laugh? They are not quite genuine. How do you think they would go as a
part of my sample line of stories for the trade?
LETTER No. XI.
_Pierrepont meets with some curious experience "on the road;" attends a
"badger fight," and relates some of his adventures in country hotels._