In a traveling man's experience no two days are exactly alike, and yet
there is a monotony in the story of a trip because the history of one
day is so much like the history of everyday. We sell to different men in
different towns but the arguments on both sides are very much the same
with all men. It is but rarely that a merchant admits that he needs
anything in our line until after a certain amount of preliminary
coaxing, and he never admits that prices are low enough.
Some buyers meet one pleasantly, and are perhaps all the more
disappointing. Their manner seems to promise success, but the result is
failure. Other men start in rather snappish, as if the salesman was a
nuisance, but gradually grow sociable, and if they give him an order he
is forever their friend. He can not take “no” for an answer, because his
experience tells him that the majority of buyers start out with a “no,”
and end by buying a bill. He must be persistent, because he has heard
numberless times, “I will look at your samples if it is any comfort to
you, but I won't buy,” and in nine cases out of ten he has taken the
man's order after all.
The longer he is out on the road the easier his work grows, but it is
not always true that his orders continue to grow larger. Friendship with
buyers work two ways: the salesman may be able to press them to buy in a
stronger manner than a stranger would dare do, and on the other hand the
buyer can the easier put the salesman off. When he says: “You know well
that if there was a thing in your line that we wanted you would get the
order, but there is none,” the salesman has to take it gracefully
and hope for better luck next time. But a stranger, in the same line,
calling there the next day, and mentioning each item in his list, may
secure an order, and at no better price than the buyer's acquaintance
would have given.
For these reasons I have not given details of my trip so far as they
concerned my own sales. It is enough to say that I was doing fairly
well, not only in selling goods, but in making “valuable acquaintances.”
My house wrote me very pleasant letters, praising the character as
well as the amount of my orders, and I looked to my going in with such
anticipations of pleasure that the last six days of the trip seemed to
have more hours than any arithmetic table of time ever put into them.
Partly to kill time, and partly to make myself more “solid” with buyers,
I spent nearly every evening with some of my customers, and listened to
many bits of experiences that were worth more than money to me.
One merchant said to me in his talk: “I have bought a great many goods
of Wiebusch, and feel as much at home in his store as I do in any place
outside of my own. And, while I do it because of dollars and cents,
still there is something back of these that always turns the scales
in his favor when his prices are no lower than his competitors. Twenty
years ago I was clerk for a hardware house in the West, and about as
ordinary a one as could be. One summer I made a trip East to visit some
friends, and concluded to give myself a treat by taking a day or two in
New York. I knew no one in the city personally; I knew the names of the
houses my employers bought from, and for some reason that of F. Weibusch
seemed most familiar. I put up at the Hoffman House. I laugh every time
I think of it.”
“Did you feel overpowered?”
“That's exactly the word. I was awfully overpowered. I had been used
to dropping into the little country hotels where the landlord and clerk
were at your service, and where you had to black your own boots, and
carry your baggage around. When I dropped into the Hoffman with my grip
in hand, and wrote my name in the register, and saw the overwhelming
indifference in the eyes of the lordly clerk, I assure you I felt as
small a potato as ever grew in a hill. I never felt quite so small and
mean in all my life.”
“How did you get around?”
“I got to the hotel about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. I sat down in the
office and tried to get my spirits up to the pitch of my surroundings,
but it was a dismal failure. I felt that I was 'country' from crown
to heel, and I was terribly uncomfortable. I happened to think of some
familiar names, and among others of Mr. Wiebusch. The directory gave me
his address, a porter posted me on street-cars and the way to Beekman
street, and in due time I presented myself at the door. I felt timid
about going in. I was only a clerk; I had no business on hand; I would
simply be taking up some of their time in the store, and with no profit
to them. But I went up stairs, and after telling a clerk who I was and
whom I was connected with, was by him introduced to Mr. Wiebusch.”
“And your reception was a pleasant one?”
“You may judge so when I assure you that I remember it vividly and
kindly to this day, and shall always do so. He could not have been more
cordial to the head of the largest house he dealt with. 'Cordial,' mind
you; not simply polite or pleasant. I was made to feel that I had paid
him a compliment by calling upon him; that everything about the place
was at my disposal; and that I could do him a still greater favor by
permitting him to do something more for me. Now that was real kindness
of heart; it was genuine courtesy, and I went back to my hotel not
caring a continental d--m whether the clerk saw me or not.”
“Did you make other calls?”
“Yes; the next day I called on a dozen houses, more or less, and was
pleasantly met everywhere; I remember that; but I don't recall the name
of a single one of them! You can see by this, from the distinctness with
which I recall everything connected with my visit to Mr. Wiebusch, what
a relief to me his kindness was.”
“Do you still go to the Hoffman?”
“Not a bit of it. When next I went to New York I was partner in the
house and the Cosmopolitan or French's were plenty good enough for me
then.”
“Are there many men on the road now that were traveling then?”
“Not a great many. Sam Disston was here to-day; he's one of the old
stand-bys, and he doesn't look a day older now. These red whiskered
men have the advantage of such fellows as you and I. I've grown gray in
spots, but here's Sam still as red as when he first came out snapping
a Disston saw. I'd like to have Sam to myself some Sunday afternoon and
get him to tell the ups and downs of his goods. Henry used to talk saw
and shout saw and swear saw, but he always sold them. I hung on to Spear
& Jackson about as long as anyone did in this section, but I had to
finally give in, and I was an ass for not taking hold of the Disston saw
sooner.”
“It's a high-priced saw, isn't it?”
“The Disston factory makes all kinds of saws. Look at this saw--pretty
neat, isn't it? Full size, 26-inch blade; good handle; what do you
suppose it is worth?”
“I know nothing of saws; I couldn't guess.”
“Yes, you can guess. You know whether it looks worth 5 cents or $5.”
“Well, say $1.50.”
“That's close. You are a good guesser on saws. I buy that of Disston for
$3 per dozen.”
“What! A Disston saw?”
“I didn't say a Disston saw. It is made by Disston, but their name is
not on it, nor is it any such quality as they would brand with their
name. But they have a tremendous trade in goods on which their name
never appears. I guess they are the largest saw manufacturers in the
world.”
“Disston must have an easy job.”
“Don't you fool yourself. Sam has just as hard a job as you have. In the
first place much is expected from him; then his goods being standard,
are sold close by all jobbers, and they are inclined to push other
makes, which can be bought cheaper. And on cheap goods it is entirely
a matter of price, so he has to meet all the competition of every
saw-maker in the country. I don't believe he has any easier job than
you, or any other traveling man has.”
After selling a couple of cases of cartridges to a wholesale grocer one
evening, he was led to tell of his early days, and I learned that no one
trade contained all the shrewd men. Said he, “I once felt that our house
was a very important one, and about as large as the State of Michigan.
But one July I went down to New York, and sauntered into Thurber's, on
West Broadway. I didn't expect to buy anything, but I thought Thurber
would feel complimented by such a man as myself calling upon him. Their
lower room looked rather busy, but not any more so than I expected, but
when I got up stairs and found myself facing from fifty to seventy-five
clerks I began to think Thurber's was a bigger business than mine. A
boy led me to H. K. Thurber's private office, but there were several men
ahead of me and I waited my turn. The longer I waited the smaller I kept
growing. Mr. Thurber's face was one that you could study. One moment it
lit up with a smile or happy thought, the next his mouth closed with a
snap as if it was the combination lock of a safe-door. At his table was
a chair for `the next,' and I felt as if `next' was going to be called
out whenever I saw a man getting ready to arise. It was a pleasure to
watch Thurber. The new-comer took his place in the vacated chair, told
who he was, what was his business, and Thurber had a 'yes' or a 'no'
ready before the man was through. 'We don't want it' came out sharp
and decisive. 'But if I could--.' 'We don't want it;' and this time the
mouth closed tighter, and the man saw there was no 'buts,' and bowed
himself out. Then to the next, and if his luck was better the bell was
touched, and the boy who answered told: 'Show this gentleman to Mr.
Whyland.' Here a letter was placed before him by a clerk, and after a
glance at it an answer was dictated to the stenographer, who sat in a
corner nearby. Long before it was my turn to bother him I felt so cheap
that I would have sneaked off, but I was afraid some of the boys would
take me by the collar and drag me back. Mr. Thurber met me pleasantly,
and said a few words about our business that told me he knew something
about us, and professed to be very much pleased at my call. Then he sent
for Mr. Whyland and insisted upon my allowing him to show me about the
store. Whyland had but lately returned from his European trip, and was
just aching all over to sell goods. You know how that is, don't you?
Take any good salesman who has been out of the harness for awhile and
when he gets back again to work there's more enjoyment in selling a bill
of goods than in drinking a bottle of champagne. I swore to myself that
I wouldn't buy a cent's worth, but before I got away from Whyland I was
down for $13,000 worth of goods.”
“Whew! It was a dear visit.”
“Not at all. I needed the goods and bought them low, so that it was
all right. But Whyland turned me over to Frank Thurber. Frank is the
politician of the concern; the greenback, anti-monopoly, mugwump man! He
beamed on me as if he was Venus rising out of the sea; patted me on the
back; said I would own all of Michigan in a few years, and he was coming
out to get some points from us wide-awake Westerners; then filled my
pockets with his anti-monopoly speeches and papers, led me to the top of
the stairs, gave me his benediction, and I left. It was an experience.
No opera that I ever listened to, no ball that I ever attended,
contained so much genuine pleasure for me as I got out of that visit.
But I went away satisfied that our house had still room to grow before
it would be the biggest in the trade. It does a man good to see what a
small concern he is occasionally.”