_Dear Pierrepont:_ Yours of the 30th ultimo strikes me all wrong.
I don't like to hear you say that you can't work under Milligan or any
other man, for it shows a fundamental weakness. And then, too, the house
isn't interested in knowing how you like your boss, but in how he likes
you.
I understand all about Milligan. He's a cross, cranky old Irishman with
a temper tied up in bow-knots, who prods his men with the bull-stick six
days a week and schemes to get them salary raises on the seventh, when
he ought to be listening to the sermon; who puts the black-snake on a
clerk's hide when he sends a letter to Oshkosh that ought to go to
Kalamazoo, and begs him off when the old man wants to have him fired for
it. Altogether he's a hard, crabbed, generous, soft-hearted, loyal,
bully old boy, who's been with the house since we took down the shutters
for the first time, and who's going to stay with it till we put them up
for the last time.
But all that apart, you want to get it firmly fixed in your mind that
you're going to have a Milligan over you all your life, and if it isn't
a Milligan it will be a Jones or a Smith, and the chances are that
you'll find them both harder to get along with than this old fellow. And
if it isn't Milligan or Jones or Smith, and you ain't a butcher, but a
parson or a doctor, or even the President of the United States, it'll be
a way-back deacon, or the undertaker, or the machine. There isn't any
such thing as being your own boss in this world unless you're a tramp,
and then there's the constable.
Like the old man if you can, but give him no cause to dislike you. Keep
your self-respect at any cost, and your upper lip stiff at the same
figure. Criticism can properly come only from above, and whenever you
discover that your boss is no good you may rest easy that the man who
pays his salary shares your secret. Learn to give back a bit from the
base-burner, to let the village fathers get their feet on the fender and
the sawdust box in range, and you'll find them making a little room for
you in turn. Old men have tender feet, and apologies are poor salve for
aching corns. Remember that when you're in the right you can afford to
keep your temper, and that when you're in the wrong you can't afford to
lose it.
When you've got an uncertain cow it's all O.K. to tie a figure eight in
her tail, if you ain't thirsty, and it's excitement you're after; but if
you want peace and her nine quarts, you will naturally approach her from
the side, and say, So-boss, in about the same tone that you would use if
you were asking your best girl to let you hold her hand.
Of course, you want to be sure of your natural history facts and learn
to distinguish between a cow that's a kicker, but whose intentions are
good if she's approached with proper respect, and a hooker, who is
vicious on general principles, and any way you come at her. There's
never any use fooling with an animal of that sort, brute or human. The
only safe place is the other side of the fence or the top of the nearest
tree.
[Illustration: "_Bill Budlong was always the last man to come up to the
mourners' bench._"]
When I was clerking in Missouri, a fellow named Jeff Hankins moved down
from Wisconsin and bought a little clearing just outside the town. Jeff
was a good talker, but a bad listener, and so we learned a heap about
how things were done in Wisconsin, but he didn't pick up much
information about the habits of our Missouri fauna. When it came to
cows, he had had a liberal education and he made out all right, but by
and by it got on to ploughing time and Jeff naturally bought a mule--a
little moth-eaten cuss, with sad, dreamy eyes and droopy, wiggly-woggly
ears that swung in a circle as easy as if they ran on ball-bearings. Her
owner didn't give her a very good character, but Jeff was too busy telling
how much he knew about horses to pay much attention to what anybody was
saying about mules. So finally the seller turned her loose in Jeff's lot,
told him he wouldn't have any trouble catching her if he approached her
right, and hurried off out of range.
Next morning at sunup Jeff picked out a bridle and started off whistling
Buffalo Gals--he was a powerful pretty whistler and could do the Mocking
Bird with variations--to catch the mule and begin his plowing. The
animal was feeding as peaceful as a water-color picture, and she didn't
budge; but when Jeff began to get nearer, her ears dropped back along
her neck as if they had lead in them. He knew that symptom and so he
closed up kind of cautious, aiming for her at right angles and gurgling,
"Muley, muley, here muley; that's a good muley," sort of soothing and
caressing-like. Still she didn't stir and Jeff got right up to her and
put one arm over her back and began to reach forward with the bridle,
when something happened. He never could explain just what it was, but we
judged from the marks on his person that the mule had reached forward
and kicked the seat of his trousers with one of her prehensile hind
feet; and had reached back and caught him on the last button of his
waistcoat with one of her limber fore feet; and had twisted around her
elastic neck and bit off a mouthful of his hair. When Jeff regained
consciousness, he reckoned that the only really safe way to approach a
mule was to drop on it from a balloon.
I simply mention this little incident as an example of the fact that
there are certain animals with which the Lord didn't intend white men to
fool. And you will find that, as a rule, the human varieties of them are
not the fellows who go for you rough-shod, like Milligan, when you're
wrong. It's when you come across one of those gentlemen who have more
oil in their composition than any two-legged animal has a right to have,
that you should be on the lookout for concealed deadly weapons.
I don't mean that you should distrust a man who is affable and
approachable, but you want to learn to distinguish between him and one
who is too affable and too approachable. The adverb makes the difference
between a good and a bad fellow. The bunco men aren't all at the county
fair, and they don't all operate with the little shells and the elusive
pea. When a packer has learned all that there is to learn about
quadrupeds, he knows only one-eighth of his business; the other
seven-eighths, and the important seven-eighths, has to do with the study
of bipeds.
I dwell on this because I am a little disappointed that you should have
made such a mistake in sizing up Milligan. He isn't the brightest man in
the office, but he is loyal to me and to the house, and when you have
been in business as long as I have you will be inclined to put a pretty
high value on loyalty. It is the one commodity that hasn't any market
value, and it's the one that you can't pay too much for. You can trust
any number of men with your money, but mighty few with your reputation.
Half the men who are with the house on pay day are against it the other
six.
A good many young fellows come to me looking for jobs, and start in by
telling me what a mean house they have been working for; what a cuss to
get along with the senior partner was; and how little show a bright,
progressive clerk had with him. I never get very far with a critter of
that class, because I know that he wouldn't like me or the house if he
came to work for us.
I don't know anything that a young business man ought to keep more
entirely to himself than his dislikes, unless it is his likes. It's
generally expensive to have either, but it's bankruptcy to tell about
them. It's all right to say nothing about the dead but good, but it's
better to apply the rule to the living, and especially to the house
which is paying your salary.
Just one word before I close, as old Doc Hoover used to say, when he was
coming into the stretch, but still a good ways off from the benediction.
I have noticed that you are inclined to be a little chesty and starchy
around the office. Of course, it's good business, when a fellow hasn't
much behind his forehead, to throw out his chest and attract attention
to his shirt-front. But as you begin to meet the men who have done
something that makes them worth meeting you will find that there are no
"keep off the grass" or "beware of the dog" signs around their premises,
and that they don't motion to the orchestra to play slow music while
they talk.
Superiority makes every man feel its equal. It is courtesy without
condescension; affability without familiarity; self-sufficiency without
selfishness; simplicity without snide. It weighs sixteen ounces to the
pound without the package, and it doesn't need a four-colored label to
make it go.
We are coming home from here. I am a little disappointed in the showing
that this house has been making. Pound for pound it is not getting
nearly so much out of its hogs as we are in Chicago. I don't know just
where the leak is, but if they don't do better next month I am coming
back here with a shotgun, and there's going to be a pretty heavy
mortality among our head men.
Your affectionate father,
JOHN GRAHAM.
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| No. 8 |
+------------------------------+
| From John Graham, at Hot |
| Springs, Arkansas, to his |
| son, Pierrepont, at the |
| Union Stock Yards in |
| Chicago. Mr. Pierrepont |
| has just been promoted |
| from the mailing to the |
| billing desk and, in |
| consequence, his father |
| is feeling rather "mellow" |
| toward him. |
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