_Letters from An Old Time Salesman to His Son_
_By R. L. James_
_General Sales Manager, Libby, McNeill & Libby_
Chicago and New York
THE DARTNELL CORPORATION
1922
Published by
The Dartnell Corporation
Dartnell Building
Ravenswood and Leland Avenues
Chicago, Illinois
All privileges of reproducing illustrations or letter press
expressly reserved by the publishers
Copyright 1922 in the United States, Canada and Great Britain
R. L. JAMES
Chicago
Printed by The Dartnell Press
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Boy Starts Out--Green and Gullible But Full of Pep 9
The Boy Writes That He Has Arrived as a “Regular” Salesman 13
The Boy Thinks the House Should Accept Cancellations 17
The Boy Has Been Promoted to a “Special” Salesman 21
Dad Gives the Boy Some Sound Advice Regarding Team Work 25
The Boy Is Having His Troubles as a Branch Manager 31
Dad Tells the Boy Why It Pays to Advertise 37
Dad Counsels the Boy to Throw Away His Knickers and Put on
Long Pants 43
The Boy Has Begun to Solicit Dad's Counsel 49
The Boy Has Told Dad of His Latest Pet “Peeve” 55
The Boy Has Met the Girl--He Sounds Dad Out on Matrimony 61
The Boy Has Been Bragging a Little 67
Dad Warns of the Evil Spirit That Whispers “You Haven't Time” 75
The Boy Is Given an Unfailing Formula for Landing a Bigger Job 81
Hal Is District Manager Now--His Problem Is Winning the Respect
of Men 87
Dad Drops in on a Branch Manager and Finds the Spirit of the
Time 93
The Boy Gets a Chance to See Himself as Others See Him 99
Dad Tips Off the Boy to a New Job 105
Dad Gets a Lesson from a Trip to the Farm 111
Dad Takes an Interest in the Boy's Big Sales Contest 117
Dad Surrenders When the Boy Lands the Big Job 123
_The Story Behind These Letters_
The most refreshing thing about these letters is that they are real
letters, written by a real salesman to a real son. Therein they differ
from so many books of this character. There is a certain satisfaction
in knowing that what you are reading was written by a man who has been
through the mill.
Another refreshing thing about these letters is that they were not
written for publication. The motive behind them is an interesting one.
Mr. James began his business career as a salesman, calling on the
retail trade in small towns. Shortly after a son came to bless his
home--a red-headed boy who was christened “Hal.” Like all men who make
a success of their profession, Mr. James believed in his work and his
dreams of the future for his son always pictured the boy as a traveling
salesman. As the boy grew and developed traits of character, what was
more natural than that his dad, who shared the boy's problems, should
visualize his son with these same peculiar traits running afoul of the
same pitfalls and snags that beset the path of every young man in sales
work? What was more natural than that he should try to impart to his
boy the secrets of his success as a salesman and manager of salesmen,
so that the son might use the father's achievement as a short cut?
Through some underground avenue, best known to himself, it came to the
attention of the editor of the Libby house-organ that Mr. James--then
a department manager--was writing a series of most interesting human
letters to his boy. After much persuasion Mr. James agreed to the
anonymous publication of these letters--with deletions of a personal
character--in the Libby salesman's bulletin. For two years the letters
of an old time salesman to his son were the most eagerly read feature
of one of the most readable of salesmen's publications.
After the letters had run the gamut from salesman to general sales
manager, during the writing of which the author himself had risen to
the position of General Sales Manager of his Company, they came to
an end. That they had exerted a powerful influence in moulding the
character of every Libby salesman there can be no question. No man
could read the letters without being the better for having done so.
And I feel that Mr. James in permitting the publication of them in
book form, so that the message they carry may be spread out beyond
the limited confines of the Libby organization and conveyed to every
man who sells things, has taken a big step toward fulfilling the
obligation which every man owes to his profession. If every salesman
could read this book it would do more for the cause of better, cleaner
salesmanship than any other one thing.
J. C. ASPLEY,
_Editor, “Sales Management Magazine.”_
THE TRAVELING MAN
How many of you remember the golden days of yore
When you were an uncouth urchin hanging 'round the village store,
When the loafers saved the country--changed the tariff every day
'Mid the fumes of various mixtures of tobacco-labeled hay,
How you forgot the colored candles and the tempting cookie can
When the door was quickly opened and in walked the Traveling Man.
'Member how some way or other conversation seemed to stop,
When he opened up his samples and your eyes would fairly pop
At experiences he related as he took his order down,
Talked about a three-ring circus--he was better than a clown,
How you wondered and you worshiped and resolved to break each ban
That would keep you from becoming, some day too, a Traveling Man.
Never seemed he ever worried, life to him was always bright
For you'd seen him in the morning and you'd seen him late at night:
Altho' he was always working you could always see his smile
Wasn't put on--just came natural, catchy, bubbling all the while;
You resolved to be just like him, now deny it if you can,
Your day dreams were filled with longing just to be a Traveling Man.
Years have passed--you've lived to see all your boyhood dreams come true
And now you're doing daily all the things he used to do;
Now you know he had his troubles which he smiled thru right along,
But it makes your memory dearer--that his life was not all song;
And like him you keep a-hustling, glad that you have joined the clan
That begets true admiration--Here's to you, A Traveling Man!
--R. L. James
_The Boy Starts Out--Green and Gullible But Full of Pep_
Dear Hal:
Your letter written as you had just finished your first week as a cub
salesman was received and I've enjoyed reading it over, two or three
times, because it brings out the fact that after all, the game doesn't
change a great deal in fundamentals since the time I used to beat the
brush.
I notice that you're impressed with the fact that it was pretty easy
for the regular salesman Ryan to sell goods, and that you think he's
a wonderful salesman. Now, of course, I never met Ryan and I don't
doubt from what you say that he is fairly popular with the trade, knows
the line and is a hard worker, but from some of the things you say,
I'm not exactly sure that Ryan is the man who wrote the first book on
salesmanship, but, of course, I may be mistaken. With all due respect
to Ryan, you must remember that your company was manufacturing and
marketing food products long before Ryan was strong enough to shake a
rattle.
Now, I'm not trying to belittle the honest sales effort of yourself or
your friend Ryan in the least, but I just want to be sure that you
appreciate the fact that your success last week wasn't due 100 per cent
to the siren voice of your salesmanship, but that a great big piece of
credit was due to the solid foundation on which you were building your
sales.
I notice you sort of “bragged” over the fact that you sold only the
_best merchants_ in each town and those who were capable of giving
orders worth while. If I had to take my choice between five nice new
ten dollar bills and five old ragged ones, why, of course, I'd choose
the crinkly kind, but if there wasn't any law against my getting both
piles, I don't think I'd be so particular, because it has been my
experience that the ragged ones can be changed into just as many dimes
and quarters as the new ones, and either one is acceptable to the
receiving teller when you pass the little black book under the wicket
on Saturday.
Now the matter of choice in selling retailers is just the same. With
a line like your company has, in the first place you should attempt
to place it in a big way in the best stores in the town, but there
isn't any game law against selling it to the little fellow around the
corner, is there? Nobody in “the house” ever told you to beware of
selling the small merchant, did they? You bet they didn't! In fact,
every successful business has been founded on the small customer, who
afterward grew into the big one. You know when Marshall Field first
started in business his store didn't cover a city block, but I suppose
there were some two and three-quarters per cent salesmen in those days
who thought Field's business was too small to bother with, but if any
of those salesmen are still living you can probably find them now
acting as a nurse-girl to a wheezy taxicab.
Notice you say Ryan told you the reason he didn't call on some
merchants was because there was no use--they couldn't be sold. I'll
never forget, the fellow who broke me in as a salesman told me the same
thing my first week as we were getting off a train in a little Missouri
town that had only two stores in it. He said that the one customer we
sold there was the much better merchant of the two and it was no use to
go near the other one.
Well, I believed him, and made my one call in the town regularly and
received the one order and thought I was doing pretty well until one
day, when I called, my customer informed me that he had just sold out
to the other merchant across the street and that henceforth there would
be only one store there.
Of course, I went over and tried to sell the other fellow, but he
naturally wondered why I'd never called before and I didn't have any
very good answer. The result was that I was beaten by my own stupidity
and I had to call on that fellow for six months before I ever scratched
an order book.
Now that is only one of many instances I could tell you, but I've found
that there is one thing that, as a salesman, you must never take
another man's word for and that is that So-and-So across the street, or
around the corner, will not buy. I've always found it a safe rule to
call on every man who had his door unlocked and the worst thing that
ever happened to me in applying the rule, was to get an occasional
turn-down, while I have had the surprise of my life many times, to see
what big orders you could get out of a little store.
The longer you sell goods, the more you'll realize that it's a battle
from start to finish, but just take it from the old man that you'll
have more luck capturing an increase in salary at the end of the year
with a whole army of little dough-boy customers on your list than you
will by trying to impress the boss with a giant named Goliath who is a
single-footer.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Writes That He Has Arrived as a “Regular” Salesman_
Dear Hal:
Your mother and I have just finished reading your last letter, and
while I realize that you may be getting pretty well fed up on my
letters, I cannot help commenting on some of the things you have
written about.
I imagine it is just about as much fun for you to get one of my letters
as holding a horse in a rain. You probably look on them as containing
the proverbial “good advice.” I can almost hear you saying more men
have starved to death on good advice than were ever killed on the field
of battle.
All of that I'll admit, but words from an old traveler of the road
you've just started on is a good deal like castor oil--you kick up a
lot of fuss if you have to take it when you're young, but as you grow
older you realize that it didn't hurt you a bit and in most cases
prolonged the life of your “engine.”
I notice that you have gone just far enough in the selling game to
discover that your goods are higher priced than every competitor's;
the merchants overloaded; business on the bum; the office manager a
crab; the credit man hard-boiled and the plant unappreciative of what a
salesman is up against.
Well--now, isn't that just too bad! But doesn't it occur to you
that with everything so badly messed up, it is strange that the
firm continues to worry along and pay dividends on its stock, year
after year? Of course, the buyer tells you your prices are too
high--otherwise he wouldn't be the buyer, but would more probably be
rolling barrels of salt around in the basement for a living--you don't
expect him to ask you to add a little to the price, do you? And man
alive!--if the goods would sell themselves your company could replace
you with a post-card.
Last, but not least, they thought best to hire a 1922 model
eight-cylinder salesman, like you (you scamp) instead of trying to get
by with a two-cylinder flivver that isn't a self-starter.
Business is bum, eh? I'm sorry you told me because that's the cry of
the quitter and I hate to think you would make a phonograph record of
yourself. Business is bad for some people all the time and similarly,
business is good for others most of the time. Now I'm willing to admit,
understand, that there are business lulls in all lines, but if you'll
trace back the origin of that expression, I'll wager you'll find the
thought was first expressed by one of those hotel lobby lizards who
got used to the buyer hunting him up during the recent period of big
demand and small supply. To the fellow who really loves the game (and
if you don't you shouldn't be in it) the changed conditions, or the
lull, if you prefer that name, only means more “turndowns” which can be
overcome by “more calls” and at the end of the day, he finds he's been
too busy to notice that lull and his order-book may reflect smaller
orders, but gee--he's got a lot of 'em!
And the office Manager's a crab; and the credit man hard-boiled;--well
now, what do you think of that! Of course, the Office Manager should
be a mind-reader and overlook it when you send in claims without the
proper information, or reports only half-filled out, but somehow or
other he isn't--no, he's just human like all the rest of us--has a lot
to do and the company don't pay him for “guessing” at things you do.
The credit man is another good friend and a salesman's safety valve.
Both of 'em are the easiest men in the world to get popular with, but
you have to do your share and come clean. Sloppy reports and incorrect
information may be the easiest way out for the moment, but they never
fool these “watch dogs of the exchequer,” and after all, if it were not
for them, your pay check wouldn't come out so regularly.
Now you're wrong again, when you think the plant superintendent doesn't
appreciate your problems. He gives them really more thought than you
do, for you have only one house to work with, while he has to try to
answer the demands of six hundred salesmen.
Now, Old Top, I expect you think I have stepped on you pretty hard in
this letter, but I haven't intended to. If you weren't my own boy, I
imagine I'd expect less of you, but it's pretty hard for the old man,
knowing that a great big red-headed human dynamo, with hair on his
upper lip, would bear even the earmarks of a whiner, not to appeal
to your better judgment by making fun of the petty trials that every
red-blooded salesman has gone through and graduated from, just like you
got over the nursing bottle, measles and mumps.
But, anyway--read this letter twice, then remember, I'm laying a little
bet on you and am anxious to get your next letter.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Thinks the House Should Accept Cancellations_
Dear Hal:
For the past few months I have allowed your mother to do all the
letter-writing from this end; in fact, Mother has become a pretty
important factor around here since she has been given the vote. She
insists that the home be in her name and my insurance in her name, so
I've consented, and further allowed her to carry my religion in her
name.
My chief reason for not writing sooner is that I wanted to wait until
you had graduated into a “jobbing” salesman, because I knew you would
eventually do so, and that with the new job would come new problems to
talk about.
Yes, the jobbing game is quite a little different from selling the
retailer, and I am glad to note that you have already found that the
average jobber buyer is generally a pretty thorough business man, quite
cold and calculating, and is more susceptible to quality and price
than he is to a salesman's personality, funny stories or the odor of
“moonshine.”
Note you say you think that your company is making a mistake in not
accepting cancellations of contracts with certain of their jobbing
customers who have been pretty hard hit on sugar declines, and that
you're afraid your company will not do much business with those
customers again, on account of refusing to “accommodate” them.
Say--Boy--just how do you get that way?
You think your company should bear “part” of the load, eh? You know one
trouble with you aggressive, red-blooded, two-fisted “kids” (as you'll
always be to me, Red) is that you don't look backward or forward far
enough.
Now let's look back a little. 'Way back last Spring your company came
out with their opening prices on the goods they sell for Fall Delivery.
On account, primarily, of the experience of the Wholesale Grocers over
a long period of years, these jobbers bought, and why? Because they
wanted to assure themselves of your company's quality and against the
possibility of an advance in cost after the goods were packed. That
was their reason and now, why did your company contract? Because they
wanted to assure themselves of a market for a certain per cent of their
pack so that their operations would not be so speculative.
You know, no business that is purely speculative is fundamentally sound.
Now this contract arrangement between your company and the jobber was
not philanthropic on either side. For years this custom has existed
in the industry and has been found to be fashioned along the lines of
sound economics. It is not a one-sided proposition by any means, for,
if it were, it would not have obtained over all these years. Sometimes
it has worked to the advantage of the canners, but just as often it
has worked to the advantage of the jobber, depending entirely on
conditions beyond the control of either. While both canners and jobbers
may have been laying up treasures in heaven for years, neither has so
far had sufficient prestige with the management to cause the rain, sun
and frost to act just right for the proper development of fruit and
vegetables, but under the contract system, both are protected as far as
possible to be fair to both parties.
Now, Red, remember the entire commercial fabric of our nation is built
up on confidence, and confidence can obtain only just so long as the
integrity of the business world is maintained by the recognition of the
validity of a contract entered into in good faith between buyers and
sellers.
All right--now this year, as usual, after making these contracts with
their wholesale grocer friends, your company invested its money in
tin cans, sugar, boxes, other supplies and materials, contracted for
acreage, labor and everything else, bought a large amount of their
supplies long before they really needed them, but they must necessarily
take no chances on failure. They borrowed money at prevailing high
rates to finance it.
Now listen, son, do you remember when you were about nine years old,
you wanted me to buy you a shot gun and a lot of other fool-killer
arrangements, and you thought I was awfully hard-hearted because
I wouldn't get 'em for you? I would have liked to have gratified
your desires, but, boy--it wasn't good business. So, also, the
cancellations--your company would like to “accommodate” their friends
by canceling their contracts if it would help them, but it isn't good
business. If they did so, they would be morally bound to cancel every
contract, if requested, because they should not do it for a few unless
willing to do it for all--they must treat all alike.
You know, everyone admires liberality, and similarly, most people like
to be liberal, but don't get away from the fact that in business you
can be liberal only up to a certain point, and after that it becomes
damfoolishness; and don't worry about losing the friendship of the
customer requesting cancellation. Any business man will admire you for
being a business man instead of a jelly-fish. He knows he has no good
business reason for expecting you to cancel and, son, you'll always
make more friends than enemies when you've the nerve to stand up under
fire when you're in the right.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Has Been Promoted to a “Special” Salesman_
Dear Hal:
Yes, I will admit that it begins to look like I never write you any
more except when you get a promotion, but I wouldn't advise you to
figure on that too closely, because sometimes I'm liable to fool you.
As a matter of fact I'm not much for writing letters except when I have
something to say, and when you were a little fellow I found that while
you were susceptible to suggestions and advice, you were very quick to
resent overdoses, so I've come to look on my letters a good deal like
beef extract--a little of it in a whole cup of hot water is a nice
thing, but no one relishes the idea of consuming a sixteen-ounce jar at
one sitting.
I was interested in your announcement that you had been appointed
a “special representative” and will travel out of Chicago doing
missionary work. I wonder if you used that word “missionary” advisedly,
or if it merely dropped out as a careless expression. Regardless of
that, I'm sure you used the right word, for as I understand it, that's
just exactly what a “special representative” should be, but I am
wondering if you are sure you really understand the full meaning of the
word.
The usual adaptation of the word “missionary” as used in business
circles is, “one who is sent out to generate, extend and foster
business and all things pertaining thereto, on a certain product.”
Now, the same relative difference exists between a salesman and a
“special representative” as does between a common or garden variety of
preacher and a missionary, but the big trouble is a great many people
fail to analyze that difference, which accounts for so many failures in
the ranks of special representatives and church missionaries.
Now, if you'll go to the trouble to drop around theoretically, to a
“Home for Indigent (sounds like ‘indiligent,’ don't it?) Business and
Religious Missionary Failures,” you'd find after talking with Exhibit
A and B their ideas of a missionary are a sort of a combination
hand-shaking, chicken-eating, solicitous, dignified, well-dressed
hombre, who sort of exhaled good will and felicitations, who didn't
have any duties in particular, but just traveled around “for the good
of the cause.” And, of course, it goes without saying that that's the
reason why they're inmates of the Home.
It's true that a missionary is a sort of supersalesman, but it means
“salesman plus” rather than “graduate salesman.”
A real missionary goes into the highways and byways; as the old
fisherman says, “he ketches 'em where they ain't.” He generates
enthusiasm in the salesmen he comes in contact with; his sales work is
educational; he sets an example for industry, sales ability, loyalty;
he teaches the salesman to use superior judgment in not selling too
little or too much to a customer; he irons out petty difficulties; he's
an exponent of the sales theory that contemplates holding your head up,
but not so high as to let a lot of little orders go by under your nose
without seeing them. Yet withal, he is humility personified, which is
the true mark of a great man.
Now, son, don't tell me that I'm only telling you stuff that you
already know--of course, you know it--but what I want to know, do you
capitalize that knowledge one hundred per cent?
Just remember, Red, when you go out on these new jobs, there's a
Wrong Way and a Right Way. You've traveled the road far enough to be
able to distinguish the sign posts. While the Boss and Dad cannot see
everything you do, it's reflected in the results, boy; it's reflected
in the results!
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_Dad Gives the Boy Some Sound Advice Regarding Team Work_
Dear Hal:
When Mother read me your letter announcing that you had at last been
appointed a Branch House Manager, as well as your comments on just what
it meant to you, I thought I'd take time tonight to unburden myself of
some of my views in that connection, that might be interesting to you
at a time when you were just starting the new work.
I am wondering if you fully appreciate the difference in your position
from a standpoint of responsibility.
Up to now, you have been working entirely for someone else and while
you are still subject to considerable supervision, in addition thereto,
you will now have others under your supervision--working under you.
Of course, you've been through the different stages of your company
selling and around branch houses long enough to have a good working
idea of the general routine of the work and I don't doubt at all, but
what you will handle that end of your work in good shape, but right
now, at the start, Boy, let's look at the bigger, broader things that
are expected of you.
One of the first things that will impress you is just how poor a
salesman Smith is, over in the East territory and what great weaknesses
that new man over South is already demonstrating. Your hands will just
fairly itch to grab hold and do it all yourself, in your own way,
which, of course, you think is the only way, but _WHOA_--throw on the
emergency, Old Top, you're skidding! You're a hustler all right and a
good man, which you admit yourself, but, Boy, you just cannot spread
yourself out over the whole territory and run the branch too, and
again, if your company had wanted you to do all the selling they'd have
told you so.
No, your job is to teach and lead others to do most of the selling,
reserving only the hard-boiled and nursing-bottle customers that the
other boys cannot land, or for some reason seem to avoid.
I want to bear down a little on that remark “teach and lead.” You
know, back in the old days before Bryan ever ran for President, which
is longer than you can remember, the popular belief was that the best
way to get the best results out of a man on any job was for the Boss
to be sort of a mixture of Simon Legree, pyrotechnic cuss-words,
bar-room sarcasm and “_Drill ye Terriers, Drill_” policy, but thanks
to a revolutionary era which was directed by common hog-sense, instead
of the kind that the butcher buys in five pound pails, that kind of
man-management has been tabooed.
Yes, I know--I know there are a lot of things you're not going to stand
for and you're all right in it too. There are a lot of things you
shouldn't stand for, as a Manager, but what I'm talking about, Red, is
the best way to go about to correct them.
Before you sit down and dictate that red hot, phosphorous, steaming,
sizzling letter to Hulbert on account of the way he emphasized his
unfortunate displacement of bone, where gray matter should be, stop a
minute, Red, close your eyes a minute and let this picture come back.
Remember when you were new, when you were beating the brush?--you got
in that town that's always a Jonah; was raining and had been all week;
the farmers weren't paying their bills; it was inventory time and it
just seemed like every merchant you called on was just a little more
grouchy than the last; no one wanted your goods, and after working hard
all day in the rain and snow, you ended up at a so-called hotel that
made you think of the Biltmore--it was so different!
You were hungry, but after a glance at the greasy fried potatoes, a
pork chop burned to a cinder and the inevitable bread pudding, you
just swallowed the lump in your throat and called it a meal? After
sitting around the lobby making out a few reports and listening to the
senseless patter of a dumb-bell in a checked suit and a pink tie, you
took your little pitcher with the broken handle, filled it at the
faucet and went up to a sea-going bed that humped up in the middle like
William S. Hart's pet broncho?
Remember, Red, how you worried yourself to sleep--sick of the whole
bloomin' mess, but determined that if others could succeed, you could?
You got up in the morning, shaved in ice water, but stuck out your
chin and strode to the dining room? Remember the gum-chewing waitress
whom someone had told she looked like Theda Bara, who brought in a
murky glass of water and exclaimed in a breath, “Steakhamliver'nbacon
an' how'd you want yer aigs?” You wouldn't have known the coffee if
it hadn't been in a cup, but you picked around like an old hen and
sauntered out into the lobby still unbeaten when the fresh squirt
behind the register handed you three letters.
Ah, Red--how you smiled! The first one was written in a round girlish
hand and told of the good time she was planning with you when you got
back to “headquarters.” The next one was written in an old-fashioned
hand, now a little scrawly and nervous from age, but it carried the
“mother message” of hope and pride in the success she knew was bound to
come to “her boy.” Things weren't so black after all--you'd show those
hard-shell merchants you would. You were almost normal when you opened
the last letter, which from the envelope you knew was from “the Boss.”
It read--“Why don't you send us some orders--we didn't send you out to
write up weather reports; we don't pay your salary to allow you to loll
in good hotels. Unless you do better next week, we'll have to make a
change.”
Bam! How'd you feel, Red? Now, honest--hasn't it happened to you? Did
it fill you full of pep and enthusiasm and cause you to go out and just
knock the cover off the ball? You bet it didn't and such things never
will. That kind of letter was written by a graduate hack-driver, not a
real man manager.
New, Red, listen--you were made Branch Manager because of your
experience, not alone in the product--not alone in selling, but
experience in Life. Your company thinks you have seen so much of
conditions that you know how to “help” the weaker brother over the
rough places. Teach 'em, Red, lead 'em! The only place for a driver
is on the south end of a pair of mules. A kind word here, a helpful
suggestion there, will make your men want to take off their coats to
help you, Boy, and it is the cheapest way in the world to buy loyalty.
And Red, don't spend all your time telling the other fellow how to do
it. All men are not “from Missouri,” but the “show me” method carries a
healthier kick than volumes of sales talks.
You're going to be a busy man in the new job, Boy, but Mother and I
have decided now that we're glad we didn't insist on your finishing
your musical education, for some day we know you'll be a Sales Manager
and I tell Mother that if she had her way, you would now be playing the
snare drum in a jazz orchestra.
Let's go, Boy, let's go!
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_The Boy Is Having His Troubles as a Branch Manager_
Dear Hal:
Mother and I received your letter several days ago and I have given
quite some thought to the problems you mention, because I wanted to
advise you right, if at all.
Note you say you are not meeting with the success you expected to, in
your present campaign and you attribute it to several causes, among
them a consumers' hunger strike, conservative buying and lack of effort
on the part of the salesmen.
Well--now, of course, the Old Man may not know as much about it as you
do, but from several other statements you made in your letter, I'm
wondering if you have really struck the _real reason_.
I don't want to misjudge you, Boy, but those reasons you give are
becoming so much of a chestnut to me--I've heard 'em so often that I'm
pretty sure I know their origin. I know that during the holidays--just
before Christmas--you could hear those records being played on almost
any talking machine that you cared to listen to, but I thought surely,
with the coming of the New Year you'd forget the “Stove League
Chatter” and chase “Old Man Gloom” out into the sunshine.
You know, I'm reminded of a fellow I used to know when I wore knee
breeches. Tom Foreman was a boy who was raised in our town and who
never knew what it was to run off to go swimming, rob a melon patch
or play hookey. His folks always dressed him nice and he was a fair
student in school, but he never batted over about a hundred and
twenty-six in the back alley league, so, of course, there was no
farewell reception tendered him by “the gang” when his folks decided to
send him away to college.
Tom would come back to town for vacations for a brief visit, but
somehow or other his schooling didn't seem to humanize him any and each
time he came he seemed to be just a little more “uppish” than the time
before, but he was very fond of airing his superior wisdom--sort of
casting his pearls before swine, as it were, even though we didn't give
him any encores.
In this particular vicinity the only game that was available was a few
cotton-tails and an occasional Jack Rabbit in the winter time, so that
hunting had become a lost art and the sportively inclined always looked
to some other sort of amusement.
We never knew exactly how it happened, but it seemed like the boys
of the Eata Bita Pie Fraternity or whatever it was, got to talking
about hunting big game over their pipes one night and Tom suddenly
developed one of his bright ideas which had been heretofore extinct and
he took to bragging to his fellow pie-biters about the exceptionally
good hunting that was available in the vicinity of his old home
town. Although this was in the days before prohibition, Tom had
never seriously gone in for tonsil irrigation, yet it must have been
something that made him wax eloquent, for the first thing we knew he
had brought four embryo captains of industry down to our town, all
dressed up like a Roosevelt African party and they announced their
intention of going out on a big hunt. Tom, of course, was too learned
to ask any of the home-guard any questions, so they started out one
spring morning in full regalia.
The boys caused quite a little excitement among the fellows whose full
dress uniform consisted of a canvas cap with a coffee advertisement
printed on it, a pair of overalls and a fifty-cent shirt, but we
held that excitement in bounds until they came home in the evening.
Of course, we never knew the grewsome details, but along about seven
o'clock that night, the hunting party returned. The total bag of the
day consisted of three ground squirrels, a hawk, one rabbit and Lafe
Benson's tom-cat--and say, you should have heard the profane vocabulary
that those city chaps spilled every time Tom came near them. Of
course, Tom was their host and all that and they had to end their
remarks with an apology, but to sit around and listen you couldn't help
but gather the idea that Tom graded a good deal lower than water goods
in fruits, when they classified him as a huntsman.
Now, I just mention this story in passing, because it brings out the
fact that Tom and his party hadn't analyzed the situation. Their
intentions were good and they had plenty of equipment, but the
dumb-bell that was leading the party, Tom, hadn't given the matter any
thought and had no definite plan. He was just hoping that through some
miracle all the game for miles around would just come up and plead to
be shot.
You know, Red, some Branch House Managers employ similar tactics. They
have the product, the samples, the salesmen and the enthusiasm, but
they don't analyze the possibilities--they don't compare the sales with
the available prospects in a territory--they allow their salesmen to
take a turn-down from a buyer who should buy big, without attempting to
make another trial. You know an amateur hunter sometimes shoots into a
flock of ducks and wings a couple and you can sometimes stick a shotgun
under a corncrib and pull the trigger without looking and maybe kill a
rabbit, but the thinking hunter sees the game and does his best to pick
'em off, one by one, and generally comes in at night with a full bag.
A manager who allows his salesmen to come out of a town that has five
prospects, with two orders and three excuses, hasn't _taught_ 'em right.
The hunger strike was in Ireland--Red--not in your territory!
Conservative buying can be overcome, by not being a conservative
seller--_SELL MORE OF 'EM and OFTENER_.
Your salesmen's effort will not worry you if you don't waste it--direct
'em, Boy, _ANALYZE--HAVE A PLAN!_
Remember, if your next letter don't tell of your being a top-notcher in
your campaign, it's going to hurt the pride of
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_Dad Tells the Boy Why It Pays to Advertise_
Dear Hal:
The letter Mother and I received from you just last night proved very
interesting to me and I've been thinking about it all day, for you
unconsciously wrote quite an essay on advertising.
From the general tone of your letter, I imagine that you have not given
any serious consideration to the many ramifications of advertising
and the true meaning of the word, for you seem to think that those in
charge of your business have a brother-in-law in the advertising game
whom they have to support and that therefore, they're spending a lot of
money uselessly, that they had better put into salesmen's salaries.
Now, I'm not an advertising expert, or very much up on the line of
argument that a real advertising man would turn loose on you under
similar circumstances. All I know about it has been learned in just the
old-fashioned school of common-sense plus what I see around me every
day and I am more than surprised to think that a red-headed scamp with
horn-rimmed goggles couldn't see certain signs as clearly as I do.
You seem to have the idea that because your line of goods is the finest
thing in cans on the market, and has been so for fifty years, that the
world and some parts of Missouri know it, never will forget it and
chant it as an ode before breakfast every morning and that therefore,
the constant advertising that your company keeps up is all unnecessary.
I further gather that you think the glib tongues of yourself and
salesmen, plus the glibness of your predecessors are entirely
responsible for the business you enjoy.
Now, I'm not denying for an instant the insistent urge of the contents
of the can on the appetite of the consumers or the efforts--_Real Sales
Efforts_--of the hard-hitting salesmen on your company's payroll, both
now and in the by-gone days, but I would like you to appreciate that
those things were nothing more than ADVERTISING and the other kind
of advertising that you are talking about is but another form that
augments the other and that all of it working together has been able to
produce this present result and to attempt to minimize the effect of
any of it is as foolish as the argument of the backwoods hill billy who
argued against giving his son an education because he had never had one.
Now, Red, you've traveled some and still do and I wonder if you ever
got acquainted with that black bound book with the red edges that lies
on the table in most hotel rooms. On the back of the book is a picture
of a water-pitcher and underneath it says something about being placed
there by the Gideon Society and if you ever looked in it, you'd find it
was that (almost obsolete to some salesmen) gem of literature known as
The Holy Bible. No, I'm not starting to preach--fact is, preachers are
not the only ones who read the Bible. I'll admit that it isn't always
as lively reading as Ade or Ibanez, but strange as it may seem to you,
you heathen, this Book is not only found in hotel rooms, but on the
reading desks of our best citizens--and there's a reason.
You know, Red, the Bible isn't an old moth-eaten account of prehistoric
people, as some might think, but it really contains some of the best
business stories that you can pick up.
Speaking again of advertising, if you'll just open up that Book the
next time you're in a hotel room, or can borrow one from the neighbors,
turn to the latter part of the Book of Genesis and begin to read about
Joseph. For fear you will not get to your hotel room from the pool hall
soon enough, or your own Bible is in the trunk in the storeroom, I'll
just tell you about it.
It seems that this fellow Joseph was kind of a hard luck individual
in the early days and he got off on the wrong foot with his brethren
and was sold into bondage and carried down into Egypt. He sparred
around in Egypt for several years, just like lots of others do in these
days, without being taken very seriously--sort of working the retail
trade, as it were, when by some clever bit of personal advertising,
like stepping on a fellow's foot or something, he got acquainted with
Pharaoh, who was the Woodrow Wilson of the party in power at that
time. It seems that Pharaoh had some kind of a dream (this same thing
still happens you know) and Joe had the good Fortune to be allowed to
interpret it. He predicted that there would be a famine in the land
following several years of plenty and he sold the idea to Pharaoh so
well that Pharaoh set up a Food Administration and appointed Joseph as
the Herbert Hoover of it and he immediately started a corner on the
grain market.
Well, to make a long story short--Joe had the right “dope” and just
as he predicted there was a famine fell upon the land, but due to
Joseph's foresight, which was unhampered by politicians, there was
plenty of food for all and Joe became a great man. Joseph's brothers
who had mistreated him when he wore knee pants, came down to see him
and brought Dad along and they were quite surprised to find him the Big
Noise in Egypt, but they were hungry.
Now, Joe had been raised right--was a decent sort of chap and all that,
so he welcomed them and persuaded 'em to go back and bring the rest of
the “gang.” They did so and the first thing they knew Egypt looked like
Coney Island on Sunday afternoon--just full of Jews, and the people
treated them fine because they were Joseph's relatives.
Then, if you'll skip on to the first few verses in Exodus, you'll find
a sentence that speaks volumes. It says “And there arose a new king in
the land who knew not Joseph.” Now, get that Red--“There arose a new
king in the land who knew not Joseph.” What can be plainer than that?
Did you ever hear a better advertising argument? You see, Joseph got to
thinking just like you talk--he thought he didn't need ADVERTISING.
The rest of the story goes on to tell how the Jews fell in popular
favor--they failed to keep their name, their merits and their
accomplishments before the people and a new king arose who knew not
Joseph.
Now I only tell you this story in passing and tell it in the language
I do because it's the only language you seem to understand. There are
lots of other good stories in the Bible--dig 'em out Red--they're good
for you.
Boy, listen! Advertising doesn't mean just so much printer's ink
in the newspapers, or magazines. That's the most familiar form and
it's necessary and produces big, but there are other kinds. You know
the majority of your trade never knew the founders of your company
personally. When they think of your company they think of you. You're
the point of contact. What kind of an advertisement are you for the
firm? Did you ever think of the responsibility you are carrying as a
manager of your company? Do you know that every move, every letter
you write, every position you take means that you are portraying your
company to someone?
In business a new king arises in the land every day. There's a new
retail grocer--a new jobber--or jobber's buyer on a thousand corners.
They know not Joseph--regardless of how good your product is, or how
long you've been on the territory, IT TAKES ADVERTISING TO PUT YOU
ACROSS IN A BIG WAY.
I'm going to bed, Red, hoping I haven't bored you. Just remember that
the Old Man is always hoping that your personal label means as much as
the label on your company's can--if it does--ADVERTISE.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
_Dad Counsels the Boy to Throw Away His Knickers and Put on Long Pants_
Dear Hal:
Mother just finished reading your last letter aloud to me and while I
know my quick reply will sort of shock you, I cannot help but unload a
few pet ideas I have along the lines suggested in your letter.
If the proverbial innocent bystander, or casual observer were to pick
up your letter in the street and would take it seriously (which I
don't) he'd certainly pick you up as hopeless, for the whole wail of
your letter, in criticising the way the home office is handling you in
particular and the sales organization in general, reminds me so much of
the kind and constructive verbal barrage that a Republican Senator lays
down every time a Democratic colleague intimates in public that his
party won the World War.
A little over a week ago, I found time hanging a little heavily on my
hands so I thought I'd take a run out to the Stock Yards and visit
a little in your company's office. I don't know why I did it--guess
it was a little touch of parental pride, or sentiment that must have
come over me and I thought I'd go out and let 'em kid me along about
that red-headed son of mine. Anyway, knowing them so well out there,
I thought I'd enjoy the trip and I wasn't disappointed. Things have
changed quite a little since my time, but if I'm any judge they haven't
forgotten the Old Man's admonition to “_keep up the quality_” not only
in the product, but also in the caliber of the men who are running the
business from the “boss” himself, clear down to the office boy.
Then I sat down at the boss' desk and just as I expected he had some
very nice things to say about you which, of course, were hard to take.
After talking to him as long as I thought I dared, I went over and sat
down at the desk where all the General Sales Department mail was being
sorted and I summoned up enough courage to ask to see the open files
they had with you. Don't know why I did it--guess it was just because
I was curious to see how well you handled things and I suppose they
thought they'd gratify an old man's whim by allowing it--anyway, they
handed me a big bunch of correspondence and I went over and sat down in
one of the private offices so I could digest it.
The first letter I picked up from the pile ran something like this,
“Attached please find a letter from Salesman Hooiszis, asking that
we purchase an automobile. What do you want to do with it?” And,
as I expected, the salesman's letter was typical of what could be
expected from your letter. It merely said he “thought” he could get
more business working with an automobile than he could by walking--no
data--no estimates--no logical reasons, in fact no nothing on which
anyone could base an intelligent opinion as to whether the request was
justified.
Then I picked up another one of your letters that ran something
like this, “Salesman I. M. Whatshisname was sick all of last week.
Please advise if I shall pay him or not.” A flat statement with no
recommendation as to what action you, as a Manager, would like taken.
Then I picked up a third letter that ran a good deal like this, “We
have on hand twenty-eight Christmas Boxes which we have been unable to
sell. No doubt some of the other houses have a market for them. Will
you not please give us disposition.”
By the time I got through with that, Red, I'll confess I had mingled
emotions. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I wondered if they
were framing up on me to give my pride a jolt and I looked out the door
at the two men who handled those letters--noticed the bald spots on
their heads, the wrinkles beginning to show around their eyes and the
gray commencing to come around the temples and, Red--on the level, Boy,
I didn't wonder.
I couldn't help but think of the story of the long suffering Job or how
the songs and stories of the centuries have told of the long suffering
patience of Mother Love and I'll confess I couldn't figure it out, for
those fellows didn't have the appearance of the Job I'd had described
to me, nor did they resemble doting mammas, so I gathered up the bunch
of letters, red in the face I'll admit, and went out and asked one of
'em how in the double-jointed, concentrated essence of modern profanity
they managed to reconcile their keeping you on the payroll after
writing such letters as those first three. He looked at 'em, scratched
his bald spot, smiled--think of it, Red, (you red-headed pepper-box)
smiled when I was all ready for the thirty-second degree of apoplexy
and said, “Well, Dad, the only trouble with you is that you quit after
reading the first three.” Then he took up the rest, one by one, and
showed me stuff that gradually brought me down to earth.