The last day on the road must always seem a long day. One figures out
just what train he will take, the hour he will arrive at the end of the
journey, and the minute he will be with his family or in the store. I
had reached my last day and was putting in my “best licks” so as to have
a good batch of orders to carry in with me, to make my welcome all
the greater. But as luck would have it no day of my trip had been so
uncertain and tantalizing.
I spread out my revolvers before four concerns and enlarged upon their
remarkable qualities and low prices. “Bulldogs” had stiffened in price
at the factories to $2.25, less 10 per cent., and our stock was large
and bought at low prices. I used this as a bait wherever I could, but
every other man had been throwing out offers of the same kind, and mine
were not so greedily taken as I would like to have had them.
“No use of your offering baits,” said one party “there's no life in the
gun business any more. Here's Lafoucheaux guns at $7, Flobert rifles at
$2, Smith & Wesson revolvers at $8, and the deuce knows where it will
stop. Things must be mighty dubious when S. & W. have to cut their
prices. Here's Reachum's last billet doux on rifles, quoting them at
about 5 per cent, above cost, and yet you expect me to give you an
order. No, it's no use; I must wait till somebody wants to buy something
that I have.”
“Do you say that about all your lines?”
“Well, it's mighty near it in everything. Here's an order from my man on
the Central for a quarter dozen steel squares at 75 and 10 off; cost me
that a month ago. Here's strap hinges at 65 and 5 off; I paid that for
them. There's a milk-strainer, sold at $1.25 per dozen, cost me $1.20;
carpet tacks sold at $1.50 gross, cost me $1.44. All these things in one
bill. I tell you I am getting rich fast.”
“I am going in to-night,” I said, “and would be glad to carry in a
little order for you. I'll get it out myself and see that nice goods are
sent you.”
“No, I don't want anything.”
I heard almost a similar complaint from the next one I saw, but I
managed to secure two orders for my day's work, and then I was done.
I never paid a hotel bill so gladly or bought a railroad ticket with
happier feelings. There was a pleasure in getting my baggage checked
home, and no car ever seemed to me quite so comfortable and inviting as
the one I rode home in.
When I walked into the store it was difficult to believe that I had been
out of it more than twenty-four hours. The bill of goods on the floor
looked exactly like the one I saw there the day I started away. The
porter and drayman seemed to be talking about the same accident or
“wake” that they were engaged in when I last saw them together, and the
white head of the “old man” was bent over his books as if it had never
moved. I couldn't help saying to myself, “How glad they ought to be that
they have only to do the work that comes to them, instead of feeling the
responsibility of creating new business.”
They met me as if I had been off on a lark, and ought to feel grateful
to them for doing my work while I was away. I wondered if I was ever ass
enough to meet our old travelers in any such way. I guess I was.
“Well, old boy, had a good time?”
This from stock clerk, from salesman, from the packer, and from the
book-keeper.
Good time! Great Caesar!
Good time! With a constant dread about you that you are going to fail!
Pushing yourself boldly into men's offices a dozen times a day, yet
always nervously dreading the reception they may give you. Catching late
trains and early trains; missing meals or sitting down to tables where
things are so uninviting you cannot eat. And all the time, day and
night, wondering if your employers are satisfied with your sales and
if they recognize the necessity of your cutting prices. A good time! If
there is any business in the world that is so little of a “good time”
I would like to know what it is. The firm met me very pleasantly. They
joked me a little about my new beard and the extra fat they declared
they saw on me, and then the welcomings were over.
I took my place at my old desk with a firm resolution to let other men
do the traveling; I would stick to the store.
“Come home to supper with me,” said the head of the house; “I'd like
to talk over your trip with you, and we can do it better at home this
evening.”
This was an honor I had not had before. The other boys looked at me with
envy.
“How have things gone? Has business been good?” I asked my old assistant
in the stock.
“Things have gone so-so; trade has been only middling. But you did first
rate, old fellow. I heard the old man say you were a success.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes, and lots more. You made a strike.”
This was pleasant news.
After our tea that evening the head of the house began to question me
about my trip, and I saw that a detailed story of it was what he wanted.
So I began with the first town that I had stopped at, and gave him a
history of the trip. He seemed to enjoy it, and to pick up a good many
items from it.
“Yes,” he said, “business is becoming less profitable every year. The
idiots who are going to get rich by selling flour at 25 cents a barrel
less than cost, simply by doing a h--l of a business, are multiplying.
Reachum can probably sell goods close and make money, as he has no
traveling men; his principal expense is his postal cards. Simmons &
Hibbard can sell our goods low because it is only one department of a
large business with them, and its proportion of expenses is not great.
We will be compelled to do either less or more; either do a smaller
business in guns and ammunition and at less expense, or to put in other
goods and drum a larger variety of trade. We have pretty much decided to
do the latter. What do you think of it?”
I laughingly suggested that in Cleveland and Indianapolis some of the
houses were adding a silver mine to their stock, and that we ought to
have one too.
“And then compel the traveling-men to buy or not give them orders? That
would be a good scheme. But I had not thought of that. Our plan is to
lay in a line of goods that will work in well with general trade and
sell all the year round.”
I said I thought it was a capital idea.
“Will you give up the stock and go on the road regularly?”
What? Go on the road regularly? Not a bit of it. Keep on, month after
month, year after year, hammering after orders? No, oh, no!
“Then you don't like it?”
No, I did not. There was altogether too much anxiety about it for me.
There were men so constituted that they did not feel worried whether
they got an order or not. They were the proper men to travel. But I was
nervous and anxious, and worried when I had no order for fear I was not
going to get one; and then worried after I had one, fearing I would
not get any more. No, I was not made of the right kind of stuff for a
traveling man.
“If I did not see that you are so thoroughly in earnest I would say you
are sarcastic. You evidently believe what you say, but you do not
seem to understand that the very reason why you will make a successful
salesman is this nervous dread of failure. When you meet a man who
doesn't care a copper cent whether trade is good or not you have met a
second-rate man. Trade can only be secured by persistent and hard work.
A man of your disposition will be pulling wires and ingratiating himself
into the good will of his customers, while your contented man is playing
billiards or making acquaintance of a sport of the town. Taking into
consideration the times and the condition of business, your trip has
been a remarkably successful one, but the second one will be a better
one for the house, and a pleasanter one for you. You will then call on
acquaintances, not on strangers, and you will find your task easier and
your trade better. Think it over. You will be more valuable to us on the
road and it will pay you better.”
But I swore I would not consider it. Afterwards I fancied I might think
of it. Then I did consider it, and yes, here I am. I represent the firm
of Blank & Blank, Guns and Ammunition. If you are in need of anything in
my line I would be glad to figure with you, for I am
A MAN OF SAMPLES.
HIS LAST TRIP.
[ILLUSTRATION]
Morgan had been on the road for one house about 20 years. This is a long
period of travel. In less time than that most men work up or work down.
No man can continue on a dead level as a salesman during that time,
even if his habits are good. If he has ability he is sure, with rare
exception, to work himself off the road. If he is mediocre no one house
can afford to carry him for twenty years. Morgan was the rare exception
just mentioned. He was an excellent salesman, and his ability and
success but served to weld him the closer to his work. The house had
made him a partner long since, but the business he controlled was
so large and so profitable, that they all knew, and he best, that to
withdraw him and experiment with a new man would be but playing with
fire over a magazine of powder. So he went on his way year after year,
making no plans for the future that would change his work or his life.
But his family, consisting of his wife and their one daughter, Mary, a
romping girl of twelve, was not of his disposition, These two could not
see husband and father start off without a protest. The wife had always
on her heart a burden of anxiety about him; of dangers on railroads, of
his possible robbery and murder; of the discomforts of hotels, and the
fear of his falling sick among strangers. She was naturally a timid
woman, and the responsibility of the house weighed upon her. The whole
burden of Mary's growth in body and mind, her training, her companions,
and her pleasures were matters the mother would gladly have shared with
the father, but she was generally compelled to decide them alone.
The father's continued absence was a constant pain and grievance to
Mary. There was never a week but that she felt deprived of some special
outing because he was not at home to go with her. Saturday night and
Sunday, if he was where he could run home, were so many solid hours of
happiness to them all, but to Mary they were full of perfect bliss.
Morgan was known to all his friends as a man who never worried. If a
train was late he sat down and waited; if a customer failed he always
signed a compromise; if he didn't get the best room in the hotel,
he took what he could get; and he lost no sleep in picturing how
his competitors might get ahead of him. He always left home with the
assurance that everything would go on all right until he returned, and
when he went away he thought of the two he loved as being happy and
well.
But as he started on this trip, he could not shake off a slight feeling
of anxiety that had possessed him all the night, and had grown since
he awoke. Their talk the previous day had been about the entrance Of
diphtheria into the neighborhood, and of the fatal case but two blocks
away from their door. Mary had complained of a slightly sore throat,
but on Monday morning declared it was entirely well again, kissing him
good-by with more spirit than usual, as if trying to convince him of the
truth of her words, and send him away assured and happy.
When he was seated in the cars the shadows came over his spirits again
and began to torture him with doubts and possibilities. It might be, he
thought, that her sprightliness of the morning was due to fever,
rather than to health. He wished he had looked into her throat, and he
regretted that he had not cautioned his wife about her. He nursed these
fears until he felt himself becoming wild with apprehension, and then
he resolutely put the thoughts aside, declared he was foolish and
would have no more of it, and devoted himself to a companion and to his
papers.
Men cannot always govern their minds. These are kingdoms that frequently
rebel against all government. Several times during the day Morgan caught
himself going back to his morning thoughts and he resolutely changed the
current. But at night, try as he would, he could not conquer them.
Even his dreams took up the forebodings of the day, exaggerated and
intensified them, and tortured him. Next morning found him out of sorts,
nervous, and miserable. He had a long drive to take in the country, but
he shrank from it as if he saw danger in his track. All his intuitions
seemed to be crying to him to go home, but what he thought was his
common sense kept insisting that he should go on with his business, and
not cross the bridge of trouble until he came to it.
The day was one of the loveliest October days he had ever seen. His
drive was through twenty miles of the best corn land of Illinois. The
black road was as dry as a board, and as level as only a prairie can be.
The first effect of the beautiful day and pure air was invigorating.
He enjoyed the drive through the street into the country road. Then the
broad fields, the pleasant farm houses, the herds of horses and cattle,
the long Osage hedges, the perpetual but always surprised rabbit at the
road side, all these attracted and entertained him, and his ride was
successful in driving away his blues. His customer seemed especially
glad to see him; took him to his house to dinner; talked with him of
important personal matters, and gave him a large order for goods. He
turned back to the railroad feeling as happy as he had ever done; took
out his order-book and figured up the amount of the bill and the profit,
as was his custom, and then began to sing.
Suddenly there came across him a wave of anxious worry, and all his
thoughts flew back to the daughter's sore throat, and the funeral he
saw last Sunday. He could not drive these away. They clung to him; they
whispered to him; they unfolded themselves like a panorama, and on the
canvas he saw Mary sick, then worse, and then dead! It was the longest
twenty-mile ride that he had ever taken, and his old friend, the
landlord, concluded from his face that Morgan had met with bad luck in
sales that day.
He had a night run to Decatur and determined that he would telegraph
to the house, and quiet these nervous apprehensions that were so cruel,
though probably so absurd. It would cost but little, he reasoned, and
though foolish, it was wiser than to continue to be torn by doubts.
So before going to bed he gave the operator a half rate message, for
morning delivery, as follows:
To Manning, Morgan & Co., Chicago, Ill.: Is my wife or daughter sick?
Answer, care Gilsey.
C. MORGAN.
He felt easier having done this, and passed a better night than the
previous one, although there was in all his sleeping and waking thoughts
an under current of solicitude over impending danger to Mary.
With an attempt not to be anxious, yet terribly apprehensive at heart,
he tore open the telegram that reached him about 9 o'clock:
To C. Morgan, care Gilsey & Co., Decatur: Come home first train.
MANNING.
Good God, what was this! Were his forebodings indeed true? If so he was
all the more totally unprepared for the truth. His constant comfort had
been that his fears had not the slightest foundation to rest upon, and
the more they crowded upon him the surer he had been that they were
flimsier than dreams. But here staring him in the face were those four
ominous words:
“Come home first train.”
Why had they not given him the whole story? He started for the telegraph
office to send for further particulars, but stopped. Suppose Mary was
dead! Did he want to learn it here, so far from his wife? No; he would
wait. Such a story would unfold soon enough. There were several hours
before a train went his way; the discipline of twenty years asserted
itself, and he attended to his business.
The ride home was one that can be understood in its depths only by those
who have been similarly circumstanced. The train seemed to creep. The
minutes were like hours. The stops seemed to be interminable, and every
mile nearer home seemed to be proportionately longer than the previous
one. He reached the city at dark. The store was closed. He had expected
to find Manning there, but he suddenly remembered that he had not
telegraphed to him the time of his arrival. As he neared his home the
first glance showed him there was a change. The lower part of the house
was in darkness, and only a dim light shone in the front chamber, which
was but rarely occupied.
“They have laid her there,” he said to himself, and all his soul cried
within him in anguish. His poor wife! How she must have suffered, to
have gone through all this alone! What a brute he was to go away Monday,
when he ought to have known, and did know, that something dreadful was
upon them! He reached the door; it was fastened; he would go to the
other side and enter quietly. But some one heard his step, and, opening
the door, called him back.
“Is it Mr. Morgan?” The voice was that of a neighbor.
“Yes.” He passed in, expecting to see or hear his wife. The friend
closed the door and turned to him.
“Have you heard--,” she began.
“I have heard nothing; is Mary--,” he broke down. The door beside him
opened.
“Oh, papa!”
Give him air! What mystery was this?
“Mary, is it you? Are you alive? Why, I thought--I feared--Oh, darling,
is it you?”
Yes, it was Mary. Oh, thank God! Thank God!
“Tell me again, dear, are you well?”
“Oh, yes, papa, but poor mamma!”
“Mamma! What of her? Is she sick? What is it? Tell me quick!” And again
he was pushed from the heaven of happiness to the bottomless pit of
doubt. “Is mamma sick? where is she?”
“Oh, papa, the doctor says she is going to--”
“Hush,” said the neighbor. “Step inside, sir; the doctor is with her
now; he will soon be down. Prepare yourself, Mr. Morgan; your wife is
very low. The servant's carelessness caused an explosion in the kitchen,
setting herself on fire; your wife ran to her assistance and saved her
life, but, I fear, at the expense of her own.”
“I must see her.”
“No, sir, not now; be guided by me for a moment. The doctor will soon be
down.”
He took Mary in his arms and they wept together. Oh, if his wife, his
darling wife! were to be taken from him! It was the cruelest blow God
ever struck! And she saving another's life, too! He cursed and raved,
but it was in his own heart; and Mary, crying on his breast, only knew
what comfort it was to have her papa once more with her.
The physician came down with manner so grave that it told its own story.
“There is scarcely a chance,” he said; “you can go to her; she will not
know you.”
“When did this happen?”
“Monday evening.”
“Have you consulted others? Can nothing more be done?”
“Nothing except to help her to die easy.”
* * * * * * *
But she did not die. She knew her husband. He begged of her to live,
as only a man can plead whose soul is bound up in a woman's life, and
whether love, or whether medicine, or whether care saved her, I do not
know. But she lived. But Morgan informed Manning that his traveling days
were over; that a new man must be engaged for that route. They found
him, after diligent search, and much to the surprise of everyone
connected with the house, he sold more goods for the firm than Morgan
had ever done. The one who rejoices most at this is Morgan, who says he
has made his last trip.
“LET US KICK.”
[The following sketch by M. Quad in the Detroit Free Press, will be new
to some of our readers, and will, we think, be appreciated by them all.]
I really and truly believe that the day will come when the kicker will
be classed where he belongs and be entitled to the reverence due him. I
look upon him as a philosopher and a philanthropist. He stands forth one
man out of ten thousand. He is actuated by the most unselfish motives.
He is the real reformer.
I am not a kicker. I am simply taking the preparatory lessons to enable
me to blossom out. The other day when I bought a ticket to go east they
told me at the ticket office:
“While the train does not leave until about eleven, the sleeper is open
at nine, and you can go right to bed and wake up at Niagara Falls next
morning.”
I entered the sleeper at half-past nine and went to bed. That is, it
is called going to bed. You are boxed up, boxed in, surrounded and
smothered and charged two dollars for the misery. A sleeping-car is a
mockery, a fraud and a deception. The avarice of the companies results
in misery for the passengers. Four other persons had gone to bed, and
at ten o'clock we were all asleep. At that hour two men entered with
a great clatter. They were talking loudly, and they sat down and
continued. I waited fifteen minutes for one of the other sleepers to
kick. No one uttered a protest Then I rose up and asked:
“Do you men know that this is a sleeping-car?”
“We do,” they answered.
“And do you propose to continue this disturbance?”
“We propose to talk as long and as loud as we please!”
I called the conductor and inquired:
“I have paid for a berth in which to sleep. I can't sleep for this
disturbance. Will you stop it?”
“Really, I can't,” he answered.
“Are there no rules?”
“Yes, but people in a sleeping-car must expect to be disturbed.”
“Oh, they must. Very well--see me later.”
Four others came in with just as much racket, and they kept their
chattering going until eleven o'clock. At half-past eleven the lights
were turned down and everybody was ready for sleep. I had been patiently
waiting for this. Lying on my back, arms locked over my head and my
palate down, I brought a snore which went thundering over that car in a
way to open every eye. After two more a man called out.
“Thunder and blazes, but we've got a whale aboard!”
After three more they began to yell at me from every berth. I put in two
extra ones, and the porter came down and shook my arm and said:
“Heah--you--stop dat!”
“Colored man!” I said, as I looked up at him, “if you come here and do
that again I may fire upon you!”
As soon as he had gone I went back to business. When a man sets out to
snore for revenge you'd be surprised to know what a success he can make
of it. In five minutes they were calling for the conductor. He came down
and parted the curtains and said:
“Hey--you--wake up! You are disturbing the car.
“Conductor, haven't I paid for this berth?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Is there any rule which prohibits snoring?”
“No, but--”
“Then you keep away from me! I have a revolver, and I might take you for
a robber!”
Then I returned to the main question. I snored in every key of the
scale. I snored for blood. I had every person in the car swearing
mad and ready to fight, and they sent for the passenger conductor.
He refused to interfere. Several chaps volunteered to “pull me out o'
that,” but when they came close enough to see the muzzle of a revolver
they fell back. At two o'clock in the morning they held a convention,
and as the result one of them asked:
“Stranger, can we buy you off?”
“No, sir.”
“Is there any way on earth to stop that bazoo of yours?”
“The four of you who came in last were grossly selfish. You had no care
for the rights of others. The four who were here before I came were
disturbed but hadn't the grit to kick. Now, then, promise me on your
solemn words that if you ever enter a sleeping-car again you will
respect; the situation, and I will let you off.”
Every soul in that car made the promise, and half an hour later we were
all asleep.