_Dear Dad_:
There's no use in telling me that I've got to dream hog if I want to get
a raise--for that's what all this rumpus on the road amounts to, after
all. There's no need, I say, to enforce the lesson, for I have porcine
nightmares every time I go to bed out in this uncivilized country. And I
_do_ wake up with determination--the determination to do something to
get back to dear old Chicago, if I have to do the Weary Waggles act over
the pike. When I think that I used to disparage our city in comparison
with Boston, I feel very humble indeed. In comparison with the villages
I've struck since I've been the _avant courier_ of Graham & Co., Chicago
is a paradise which no sensible man ought to depreciate. Milligan used
to tell about a purgatory to which wandering souls have to go for a bit
of scrubbing up to fit them for the good things of heaven. Of course he
referred to experience on the road.
You complain because my selling cost in this sort of life just balances
the profit I turn in to the house, but I think it should be a source of
great satisfaction that you've got a son who can so rise superior to
circumstances as to pay his way with the Graham incubus hitched to his
shoulders. It's worth something to make an Ananias of yourself a dozen
times a day, with bad dreams thrown in at the end of it. A liar is
popular only when his cause hits the popular taste, and I've yet to find
a town where our bluff is worth more than twenty-five cents in the pot.
Of course life isn't all a vale of tears, even during the quest for
orders. There was a rift of sunlight yesterday at Simkinsville Four
Corners, where I assisted at the annual Spring dog-and-badger fight.
This function is gotten up with such a regard for the proprieties that
even a college man has to give it his approval. I happened to arrive in
town on the day of the festivity, and just naturally wanted to see it.
A big crowd gathered in an open space back of the town hall, and all
other interests were neglected for the time being. Even the Presbyterian
minister was on hand to see that the thing was carried out in a fair and
square manner, and I felt that with such spiritual backing the fight
ought to be a good go.
There was a good-sized box in the centre of the ring, under which some
one told me was a badger of exceptional fierceness. About ten feet away
was a bull terrier who looked like the veteran of a hundred fields. He
was kept in leash by a muscular negro, and the way he strained at his
chain convinced me that badger was his particular meat and that he ate a
good many pounds a day.
At the time I arrived on the scene there seemed to be a difference of
opinion as to who should pull the string of the box and liberate the
badger. Finally the row grew so intense that an election was proposed,
and nominations for the exalted office were made. But every one who was
mentioned seemed to have some out about him. He had bet heavily on
either the dog or the badger, and such a thing as pulling the string
with impartiality was thought to be out of the question. Meantime the
odds were being chalked up on a big blackboard amid the excited roars of
the crowd, and it began to look as if there wouldn't be any
dog-and-badger fight at all.
Just at this point somebody suggested me as the proper string-puller, on
the ground that I was a stranger and not biased either way. "Besides,"
he urged, "as a college athlete he is an expert on sport." Then the
whole crowd yelled "Graham, Graham," and I felt that I ought to respond
to the confidence imposed in me. So I made a little speech in which I
said I was highly honored by the nomination and would accept the duty
with the firm determination to do unswerving justice to all.
I took the string as the bulldog was making frantic endeavors to get at
the box, and turned my head away so as to give a pull that should be
absolutely fair. Then the umpire began to count, amid the breathless
silence of the crowd. At the word "three" I gave a tremendous yank at
the box, and--well, the result wasn't exactly conducive to the dignity
of yours truly, for there, where I had uncovered what was supposed to
be a fierce badger, stood a full-fledged cuspidor.
I don't know which looked the sickest, the dog or I, but he had the
advantage of being able to sneak off into the crowd, while I had to
stand and take the wild cheers of the populace like a true hero of the
Graham stock. It cost me considerable to wipe out the disgrace in drink
for the gathering, but it simply had to be done if I am to sell any
goods in this vicinity. And as what I am out for is orders with a
capital O, it follows that I've got to have the capital necessary to get
'em. You understand, of course, and will approve my next expense account
with a glad hand.
In this town I am staying at the Eagle Hotel,--a hostelry that would
probably carry you back to your boyhood days. It's the kind where one
roller-towel does duty for every one in the washroom, and a big square
trough filled with sawdust is the general office cuspidor. There's no
table in my room, of course, so I'm writing this on the slanting pine
board they call the writing desk, listening to the shouts of the natives
and the stories of mine host, Major Jaggins.
The major is a slab-sided, lantern-jawed individual, who got his title
all right in the war, as his two cork legs prove. He's a very tall man,
and when I ventured to remark on his unusual height the crowd roared and
voted that I was elected to "buy." All strangers buy on this particular
proposition, I was told.
It seems that Major Jaggins was a regular sawed-off before the war, and
he felt his lack of height keenly, especially as he had a soaring mind
and had to answer to the name of "Stumpy." But his time came. At the
battle of Cold Harbor he had both legs taken off by a shell. When he
came to he gave a yell of delight that paralyzed the nurses and nearly
scared the rest of the hospital to death. He was simply thinking of what
he was going to do on the leg matter, and he realized that he wasn't
going to be "Stumpy" Jaggins any more. After he was cured he just gave
his order to the cork leg people to make him two of the longest pins he
could stand up on. Consequently he now walks the earth a trifle shakily,
to be sure, but way above the general run of mankind, and that's what he
likes. He swore he'd been short long enough.
I simply mention the case of Major Jaggins as a reminder that nature
doesn't know everything, and that art sometimes has the last word. Even
if I'm not cut out by an obliging providence to be the proprietor of a
big packing house--and your letters sometimes have a pessimistic ring
that implies your belief that I am not--a good deal can be done by
kindness and a judicious expenditure of money. Which leads me quite
naturally to remark that your ideas of a travelling man's expenses are
evidently founded on your early knowledge of pack-peddling. Then again,
these country yokels have to be conciliated, and, although whiskey is
cheap, they have blamed long throats.
This hotel belies its name, for they say eagles don't feed on carrion.
But it's no use kicking at the table, for Major Jaggins simply stivers
out to the pantry and brings back a lot of Graham cans which he places
at your plate with an injured air. I suppose he has the same gag for the
drummers of all the different houses, but it's effective, just the same.
Apropos of hotels, I have discovered a curious fact: the farther you go
the worse they get, and even if you strike a good one occasionally it
only increases your sorrow, for comparison augments the future misery.
It's no use to try to pick your hotel. No matter which one you select in
a town, you'll be sorry you didn't go to the other. And if you make a
change and go to the other you're dead certain to regret that you didn't
know when you were well off and stay where you were.
It's no use to complain. I've tried it. Night before last I slept in a
room that was apparently a gymnasium for rats. About two o'clock, when
they began to use the pit of my stomach for a spring-board, I went down
to the office and pried the clerk out from behind the cigar counter.
"See here," I said, "I can't sleep, there's so much noise."
"Sorry, sir, but I can't help it," he replied, flicking a dust atom from
the register. "This is a hotel. The Sanit_o_rium is on the next street.
Ever try powders?"
"What on?" I queried, not to be outdone, "the rats?"
"Rats? I do hope ye haven't got them. The last man that--"
"No, I haven't got 'em, but the room has. They're all over the place."
"Rats, eh?" and the clerk gave the register a twirl. "Let's see, you're
in 51--dollar room. Couldn't expect buffaloes at that price, could ye?"
I stayed in the office the rest of the night and in the morning the
clerk pointed me out to his chief.
"That gent," he said, "has insomniay."
"That won't do, young man," said the landlord, with a withering look.
"We can't have such things in this house. It's a family hotel."
I tried making inquiries, but it's no good. Every man in town will swear
that some particular hotel is "the best this side the Mississippi."
Foolishly enough, I tried to quiz the clerk of one house, while I was
registering. I wound up a few queries about the table with the
conundrum, "Are your eggs fresh?" He knew the answer.
"Fresh?" he drawled, looking straight at me. Then he rang a bell, and
cried, "Front!" The one bell-boy appeared from somewhere, eating what
was once an apple.
"Gent to hund'erd an' thirteen," said the clerk. "An', boy, stop at the
dining-hall on your way back and tell the head waiter that this
gentleman is to have his eggs laid on his toast by the hens direct."
That was the end of my attempts at previous investigating. Now if I
cannot eat the food, I content myself with chewing the cud of bitter
reflection. But I'd barter my immortal soul for a square meal at
mother's round table.
The time I've put in at the different grocery stores to-day has served
as a regular eye-opener to me as to the game I'm up against. Apparently
nobody in this whole country except the patrons of the Eagle eat any
packed provisions at all, and our special brand seems to be a dead one
on all the shelves. I couldn't give the stuff away, much less sell it. I
did place one order for a hundred pails of lard, but I learned to-night
that the fellow is going into insolvency in a day or two, so I guess
you'd better not send the stuff.
Taking it by and large, I have discovered that a thorough course in
hypnotism would be the best equipment for a successful salesman of our
particular kind of goods. For instance, if I could look old Sol Blifkins
of the Harrod's Creek Bazaar and Emporium in the eye, and make him
believe that folks were just clamoring for frankfurts instead of rum in
these parts, and compel him to see a blank space where our aged cans are
still lumbering his shelves, I fancy the thing would be a cinch. One of
our fellows at Harvard, the son of an Episcopal bishop, wrote me a while
ago that his father had decided upon his taking orders, and that it was
a blamed hard proposition; I don't know what his special line is, but if
it can match this gunning for pork buyers he has my sincere sympathy.
I keep running across Job Withers. I think he's detailed by his house to
watch me. He arrived at the City Hotel this morning just as I was
leaving it to go on a still hunt for a ham sandwich. He greeted me
cheerily.
"Ah! been stopping at the City? Good hotel. Fine table."
"Is it?" I said calmly.
"Yes, indeed; best this side of Indianapolis."
Thank heaven, I'm going the other way. I didn't tell him that. What I
did say was: "You say this is a good hotel and a good table?" He nodded.
"Well," I went on, "let me tell you a story." That staggered him, for I
saw he realized that if I'd reached the story stage I was due for
business.
"There was once a little boy," I proceeded, "who was sitting on the walk
under a green apple tree, doubled up with cramps and howling like a
pocket edition fiend. A bespectacled lady of severe cast of countenance,
stopped and asked him his trouble. 'Them,' said the boy, pointing to the
tree, 'and I've an orful pain.'
"'Pain!' said the lady, 'don't you know there's no such thing? You only
think so. Have faith and you'll have no pain.'
"'Gee!' said the boy, 'that's all right. You may think there's no pain,
but,' rubbing his stomach dolefully, 'I've positive inside information.'
And so have I about this hotel," I said to Withers as I left him.
Confidentially, I think Withers' label reads "N. G." My one object in
life is to put him off the reservation. From now on watch
Your hustling son,
PIERREPONT.
P.S. Please ask the cashier to forward an immediate check for enclosed
voucher--a bill presented by the landlord of the Eagle Hotel. The
"medical services" were for typhoid fever, contracted by his family. It
appears that your drummer who came here last fall emptied part of the
contents of his sample case in a vacant lot back of the hotel.
[Illustration: _Pierrepont Graham as a Travelling Salesman._]
LETTER No. XII.
_Pierrepont puts one of the paternal theories into execution with
unfortunate results and recites some drummer's yarns with philosophical
addenda._