on the train coming home from the Shoe and Leather Fair at St. Louis,
and as I have a few minutes before Miss Sweeney brings in the figures
on that last shipment of the Company's leather, I'll pass it on to you
for what it's worth.
I was in the observation car, trying to write a few letters amid the
chatter of a group of red hot sports, who I judged from their remarks,
were on the way home from playing the races at New Orleans. One young
fellow, in a sunset suit, was particularly noisy. Every few minutes,
he would draw a huge wad of bills out of his pocket and waving them
under his friends' noses would boast of what he was going to do to Wall
Street when he hit little old New York.
Now I have considerable respect for Wall Street's ability to take
care of itself, and somehow I couldn't picture all the old bulls and
bears putting up the shutters and hiking for the tall grass, when that
particular youth who had a chin like a fish's, landed in their midst.
The train stopped at a small town, and an old man who looked like the
greenest rube in captivity came into the car. He sat down opposite
the bunch of sports and pulling a country newspaper out of his pocket
buried himself in its pages.
From where I sat, I could see the sporting fraternity sizing him up and
presently the young loudmouth crossed over and sat down beside him.
"Nice country around here Uncle," young freshy began.
"Shore is," the old farmer answered. "So durned fine I hate tew leave
it. I bean here nigh on forty years, and I hain't left Bington more'n
twict. I sold the old farm a short spell back, and I'm going to Chicago
now to live with a granddarter."
[Illustration]
"Have a cigar?" asked the young sport.
"Don't keer if I do," replied the farmer biting off the end, and taking
one of the safety matches from a holder on the wall of the car he tried
to strike it on the sole of his boot.
Now at that time safety matches had not been used to any great extent,
still I didn't suppose it was possible there was anyone who did not
know what they were, although I knew that in some of those small
mountain towns away from the railroad, the people were said to be a
hundred years behind the times. When the old man tried to scratch
another, and then a third, I was convinced he'd never heard of or seen
a safety match, and I wondered what he'd do next.
"Powerful pore matches, these be," he said with a grunt, as he reached
for a fourth and attempted to light it on the leg of his trousers.
A crafty, cunning look, spread over the young sport's weak face. "You
can't light those matches that way," he said.
"I'll bet I kin," the old man replied doggedly, making his fifth
unsuccessful attempt.
"What will you bet?" the young fellow asked, quickly, an evil light
gleaming in his fishy eyes.
"Wal I never yet seen a match I couldn't light on my pants. I'll bet
you a quarter."
The young man fished out his wad of bills. "I'm no tin horn," he
replied, with a sneer. "But if you want to lose your money, I'll bet
you $100 you can't light one of those matches on your trousers."
"Land sakes!" cried the old farmer. "A hundred dollars?"
"That's what I said," replied the young fellow, grinning at his pals.
"This gentleman will hold the money," he continued, peeling off a
hundred dollar bill from his roll and thrusting it into my hands.
I had just about decided to spoil the game with a little history on
safety matches, when the old farmer who had been fishing around in his
wallet, darted a shrewd glance at me, then deliberately winked.
Finally, he counted out $100 in small bills, which he handed over to
me, grabbed a safety match from the container, rubbed it on the leg of
his trousers, and when to my astonishment, it burst into flame, calmly
lighted his cigar and held out his hand for the $200 which I passed
over to him.
Later, in the pullman, as the old fellow was mooching by my chair, he
raised his coat enough to show me the side of a safety match box sewed
to the leg of his trousers.
Now the only trouble with betting, Ted, is that it's wrong. It's wrong
for several reasons. First, because it's trying to get something for
nothing; second, because a man always loses when he can't afford it;
third, because gambling of any kind will sooner or later get a young
fellow into the kind of company he don't want to introduce to his
folks; fourth, because if a fellow sticks to gambling all his life he's
pretty sure to die in the neighborhood of the poorhouse; and fifth, no
matter how slick a gambler you become, you will always meet a slicker
one, who will trim you to a fare-thee-well.
It's fine to back your teams to the limit, and I'd think you a pretty
poor sort of a stick if you didn't yell your head off at a game, but do
you think it helps to steady a players nerve in a pinch, to know that
if he doesn't deliver, his schoolmates will have to live on snow balls
or some other light refreshment for a couple of months.
No Ted, old scout, betting is not only wrong, it's foolish.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_April 6, 19--_
DEAR TED:
I agree with you, you do need a new hat. One about two sizes larger
than you have been wearing, I should judge from the line of talk you
turned loose when you were home last Sunday.
Now it's all right for a fellow to think well of himself. He'll never
get far if he doesn't, but it's just as well to be careful how you sing
your own praises, for some day your audience may consist of persons who
know the folks who live next door to you.
You've done pretty well so far in making a decent showing in your
mid-years under a big handicap, playing on the football team, and
making the glee club, besides being elected to the Plata Dates and the
student council, but you want to remember that even a vegetarian can't
live long on his laurels and keep up the good work, for you haven't
completed your school course by a good bit.
Sunday, you gave a pretty fair exhibition of enlargement of the cranium
commonly known as swelled head. That's one of the most dangerous of all
known diseases, and one you can't cure any too quickly. It's all right
to be pleased with yourself for accomplishing something worth while,
but it's all wrong to keep on being pleased with yourself unless you
keep on accomplishing things worth while.
Whenever you can look at yourself in the mirror and be satisfied, you
should consult a conscience oculist, for as sure as shooting there's
something wrong with your inner sight.
But worst of all, is to let people know you're satisfied with yourself,
and it's just as well to remember that the word I is the most
superfluous in the English language.
Hot air may be a necessity in the Balloon corps, but the private
offices in the factory are steam heated, and the men who sit in them
are not there because they talk about themselves, but because they
think for the firm.
The reason I'm handing you a pretty stiff dose in this letter, is
principally because you need it. I've seen a lot of promising young
fellows start out with a rush, and then after they have made a moderate
success, become so satisfied with themselves that they stick in a small
job, when they have the ability to go much higher if they could stand
prosperity.
There is always an over production of beginners but the supply of
completers is never equal to the demand, and I want you to remember
that the 31st of December is just as good a day on which to do business
as January first.
It's all very nice to be considered the biggest man in your class, but
you aren't going to be long if you go around telling people how big you
are. Keep from making liars of the friends who praise you, and remember
that persons who try to show off their greatness usually end by showing
it up.
A horse who rushes the field for the first quarter doesn't always
finish in the lead. No one deserves much credit for starting out with
a big splash. It's the fellow who's doing business at the finish who
really counts.
You've been a little too successful so far this year in everything
except your studies, and your success has settled in your head.
Now don't think I'm not glad you are popular with your schoolmates: I
am, but I'd much rather you weren't quite so popular with yourself. I
don't want to rub it in Ted, but I do want you to realize that it's a
blamed sight easier to reduce a swelled head when it's young than after
it begins to get bald.
I had my little experience when I was super. at Clough & Spinney's in
Georgetown so I'll pass it along to you for what its worth.
I'd started in as a boy in the shipping room, been promoted to shipping
clerk, then I'd worked as a laster, going from that to the sole leather
room. I'd married and been promoted to foreman, and having saved some
money I'd bought a little house which was nearly paid for when I was
made super.
I was about as happy a young fellow as you could find in all the New
England shoe trade, for I'd been progressing steadily ever since I'd
started work and it looked like a rosy future ahead.
As I look back now, I see that it was my help that made my success
possible quite as much as my own efforts. Americans to the backbone,
everyone of them! Steady going respectable men and women some of whom
had been working in the shop when I was born, and who would have told
any agitator to mind his own business, who might have undertaken to
tell them they were working too hard.
Well, anyway, at the end of two years I had that little factory running
as slick as a greased pig, and I was wearing a self-satisfied smile in
consequence that I didn't even try to conceal, for old Hiram Spinney
had taken to calling me William, and Ezra Clough used to invite your Ma
and me to supper most every Sunday evening.
Then one day old Hiram landed a whopping big government contract, and
it was up to me to make the shoes according to specifications and on
time.
Well sir, there was a great bustle and hurrying around the little shop,
extra hands were hired, new machinery installed, and then I started for
Boston to buy the leather.
For the first time I was doing business in a really big way, and I was
so full of the size of the order I was to place, I felt sure there
was only one leather company that could handle my business, so I
pooh-poohed several salesmen whom I met on South Street, and who having
heard of our government contract assured me they had blocks of leather
I could use to good advantage.
I bought my leather at what I considered a very good figure, had a good
lunch at the old United States, and sat around the lobby for a while
talking with the shoe and leather men I knew, letting it be pretty
generally understood that as a superintendent I was some punkins.
Then on the strength of my wonderful ability as a buyer, I went up town
and blew in about $100 on a new outfit for myself and some presents for
your Ma.
When I took the train for Georgetown that evening, I ran bang into old
Hiram Spinney and as we settled down in the same seat, he began to quiz
me about the orders I had placed.
Full of pride because I considered I had bought to the best advantage,
I started in to tell the old man what a great superintendent he had,
poking a good deal of scorn at the foolish salesmen who had tried to
interest me in their small blocks of leather, when I was out to buy a
large quantity.
Old Hiram didn't say anything until I got through praising myself,
which took some time as I was thoroughly sold on the idea.
When I'd finished, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
"Didn't even bother to look at those small lots of leather?" he asked.
"Nope, couldn't waste my time on 'em," I replied.
"I did," he answered, "looked pretty good to me too."
He went on telling me the prices quoted on each lot, describing the
leather so accurately I knew I had passed by some mighty good things.
Gee! Ted, I could feel myself all shrivel up like a red toy balloon
after a kid sticks a pin in it. I'd eaten a mighty good supper, but I
felt hollow inside, and I guess my face looked as though I was seasick,
for as near as I could figure I'd paid $12,000 more for my leather than
I needed to have done.
Old Hiram let me squirm until the train reached Georgetown and we had
stumbled off on to the platform.
"Thought maybe you'd like to know I bought those odd blocks," he said
as I started for home.
"You did!" I replied, for I couldn't see how we possibly could use them
along with what I'd purchased.
"Yep."
"What about the lot I bought?" I asked.
"I just stepped in and cancelled your order ten minutes after you'd
left."
I was so happy I could have yelled for joy and at the same time I felt
like two bits and a nickel.
"William," said old Hiram walking up and laying a hand on my shoulder,
"you're a good boy, and you've done real well, but lately you've given
signs of being too self-satisfied. Forget your own importance for the
next ten years and then you will have reason to be proud."
He gave me a friendly little pat, and trudged off into the dark.
Old Hiram cured me. To this day I've remembered his advice, and tried
to follow it. It's still bully good dope. I'd play it for all its
worth if I were you.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_April 30, 19--_
DEAR TED:
Frankly Ted, I don't see how you ever did it. I have had some
experience with expense accounts having twenty salesmen on the road;
but no travelling man I have employed, ever had the nerve to present
such a collection of outrageous bills as was contained in your last
letter.
I'll admit, I was prepared for a few modest accounts, mostly for
extra food, for a boy your age is nearly always hungry, and of course
they starve you at the Commons, although I managed to get quite a
substantial meal there the night I had dinner with you. But as near as
I can judge the Exeter townspeople must be on the verge of starvation,
for surely you have consumed all the food supplies in all the stores in
the township.
I put you on an allowance this year, so you could learn how to handle
money, and so far the net result has been that you have given a most
perfect example of how not to do it.
A boy who can't keep pretty close to his allowance, is going to grow
into a man who can't live within his income, and neither are going to
score many touchdowns in the game of life, although they may do a whole
lot of flashy playing between the twenty yard lines. Besides, it's just
as well to remember that no one yet ever succeeded in eating his way
into Who's Who.
Perhaps some of it is hereditary, though, for I remember when your
Uncle Ted first went away to school, your grandmother gave him an
allowance and made him promise to keep account of every cent he spent.
When he came home on his first vacation, she sat down with him and
went over his accounts, on the whole much pleased, because he had kept
within what she had given him.
Every third or fourth entry was S. P. G. and being a devoutedly
religious woman she was delighted to find her boy had given so much
of his money to the Society for Propagation of the Gospel, until Ted,
being honest, had to own up that S. P. G. stood for Something, Probably
Grub.
Your bills for extra feed, would make those of a stable full of
trotting horses look like the meal tickets of a flock of dyspeptic
canaries. But I don't mind those so much for I don't want to see you
starve.
What I do mind is six silk shirts at twelve per, and a dozen silk sox
at three dollars a pair. Now when you are making $15,000 a year which
you won't be for some time, if you want to pay twelve dollars for a
shirt that's your funeral, although I rather suspect that by then you
will have found out that real good shirts can be bought much cheaper.
[Illustration]
Of course when you had bought a few shirts at twelve dollars a throw, a
dressing gown at forty, and silk pajamas at $15 came real natural.
Did I ever tell you how a necktie cost me $150? Well I will, before the
super. comes in and tells me there's a new strike in the stitching room.
I was nineteen, and had been clerking for three years in Jed Barrow's
store. Jed was so busy putting sand in the sugar, and mixing his Java
with a high grade of chicory, he didn't have much time to think of
advancing my wages, but I was careful, I had to be, and at the end of
three years I had saved $178. I never have forgotten the exact figures,
because it came so blamed hard.
There, one day, Jed suggested I take a week's vacation. I think he was
afraid I was going to ask for a raise, and did it to get me out of the
way, but as my Uncle Ezra had invited me to visit him in Boston I took
my week, without pay, and hiked to the big town.
Uncle Ezra was the aristocrat of the family. He lived in one of those
old yellow brick houses on Beacon Hill just across from the common,
the kind with the lavender glass in the downstairs windows, and if
the old man hadn't been so busy being an aristocrat, he'd have made
a first-rate radical, for he was continually writing letters to the
Transcript complaining about everything as it was.
Uncle Ezra greeted me cordially enough, until he caught sight of my
necktie which I'll admit was somewhat bewhiskered and more green than
black.
"My boy, what an awful tie!" he exclaimed.
"Really, you must let me buy you another," and he pulled some money out
of his pocket.
Being proud, I refused, making some excuses about not having time to
buy a new one. The first chance I got, I scooted across to a fancy
haberdasher on Tremont Street, and picking out a handsome dark-blue tie
told the clerk to wrap it up. I had never paid more than a quarter for
a tie, and when he calmly told me it was two dollars I almost fainted,
but I felt I couldn't very well refuse to take it so I went to the back
of the store and put it on. Do you know Ted, when that rich silk tie
was contrasted with my blue serge that had seen considerable service as
Sunday best, I felt about as comfortable as a man in overalls wearing a
plug hat.
He who hesitates is sold. I hesitated, and the next thing I knew a
smart young salesman was selling me a new suit, then I noticed the
shoes I was wearing were patched. Well, sir, before I finished I had
a complete new outfit, and that store had $150 of my money. It didn't
worry me any until I was passing the Savings Bank at home. Then it
struck me all of a sudden that in a week I had spent what it had taken
three years of back-twisting work to save, and that the net result of
my labor I could show in money was exactly nothing.
Ever since I have spent a little less than I earned, and that is a
bully principle for you to imitate. I hate a tightwad, Ted, as much as
you do; but I hate what is commonly known as a good spender a blame
sight more. I don't want you to grow into a man who groans every time
he spends a cent, and neither do I want you to feel that money is like
the smallpox to be gotten rid of as quickly as possible.
A good spender is usually a man who believes in giving himself a good
time, and who leaves his wife to take in boarders and his children to
shift for themselves.
Now I'm going to pay your food bills, this time for I don't believe the
Exeter townspeople will get much to eat until the storekeepers collect
the money owing them, and can lay in a new stock; but you are going to
pay for those silk shirts, pajamas, and other dodads, at the rate of
three dollars a week until you've paid me back what I advance. Then
after you have paid in full, if you want to buy more on the same terms
all right.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
LYNN, MASS.,
_May 10, 19--_
DEAR TED:
If I'd had time before I left Exeter last week, you and I would have
had a heart to heart talk about some of those freak books and magazines
I found strewn all over your room.
"Equalization of the Masses," "The Worker's Share," and "The
Exploitation of the People," are heavy-sounding titles, and the
contents, I should judge from my hurried examination, would be about as
easy to digest as a bake-shop plum pudding.
Your study table also seemed to be carrying more than its share of
long-haired magazines, and although I read some of their foolishness
just to see how foolish they really were, I was afraid all the time I
was looking at them, some one would come in and catch me.
Now I've read a considerable number of fool articles in my life, but
that one on "Soviet Government for the United States," wins in a walk.
How anybody outside of Danvers could believe in such nonsense is beyond
me, especially after what has happened in Russia, but as old Jed
Bigelow used to say, "There ain't nothin' so foolish but some critter
will believe it," and Jed was right.
When you told me a few weeks ago you had joined the Radical Club, I
thought it was just a kid fad you'd taken up to have a little something
extra to do, but I didn't imagine you'd started in to support all the
crack-brained, long-haired, wild-eyed writers who are making a living
out of the good nature of this country.
Radicalism is mighty dangerous business Ted, about as safe as smoking
cigarettes in a patent leather factory, and if I really thought you
believed you were in sympathy with all that nonsense I'd whale you good.
The trouble with you is you're just beginning to think a little for
yourself. Now thinking for yourself is fine, but until you begin to
direct your thoughts in the right direction you're a good deal like
the cannon Uncle Abijah invented during the Spanish War. It was a
first-rate gun when he could control it, but it was as likely to kill
the people behind it as those at whom it was aimed, so Uncle Abijah
gave it up as a bad job after it had blown off most of his whiskers and
a couple of fingers.
These radical galoots who want to tip everything in the country upside
down from the constitution to the movies get under my hide, and if I
had my way I'd make everyone of them work at least eight hours a day
and bathe oftener than every thirty-first of February.
It makes me mad clear through, to see these snakes who leave their own
countries because the sheriff wants 'em, busy before the immigration
authorities can disinfect 'em, plotting to overthrow the government who
gives 'em the only chance they ever had.
In a republic all men are born equal, but that's all. It's nonsense to
suppose that a good for nothing loafer who makes his living by stirring
up hatred against law and order, is the equal of a decent, God-fearing,
hard-working citizen, who minds his own business, pays taxes, and tries
to raise a family of straight Americans, and if anyone tries to tell
me two such men are equal, I'll let him know mighty quick I think he's
either a liar or a blame fool.
A lot of children cut open their dolls to see what's inside, and a
lot of folks who ought to know better are monkeying around with this
radicalism business to see what's in it. I can tell you what's in it:
"Nothing!" and working to promote nothing is a fool's job.
Now you may think I'm too conservative, but I believe that when Thomas
Jefferson & Co. wrote the constitution of the United States they did
a pretty fair job, and until some one can improve on it, which hasn't
been done yet, I'm backing up the old constitution with every bit of my
strength.
Whenever I hear of anyone becoming interested in radicalism, it always
reminds me of an old fellow by the name of Charlie Gabb who lived in
Epping. Now Gabb was rightly named, for he used to hang around Sol.
Whittaker's store filling the place with hot air, until Sol. nailed
chicken wire over the top of his cracker barrels.
Gabb was against everything as it was. Nothing was right, work
included, I guess, for he was never known to do any, and was supported
by a long-suffering wife who used to earn their living by going out
working by the day. He was agin the government, and agin all law, and
claimed all wealth should be divided equally among the people. There
wasn't anything he couldn't improve on, but as he was harmless in spite
of all his talk, no one paid any serious attention to him.
Gabb went on talking for a number of years, without exciting any of the
Epping folks over much, and then the woolen mill was built, and a lot
of Poles came to town to work in it.