Two salesmen went to work for Jones, who deals in basswood trunks; each
drew per week eleven bones, eleven big round plunks. “It isn’t much,”
said Jones, “but then, do well, and you’ll get more; I’d like to have
some high-priced men around this blamed old store. You’ll find I’m
always glad to pay as much as you are worth, so let your curves from day
to day astonish all the earth.”
Then Salesman Number One got down and buckled to his work; and people
soon, throughout the town, were talking of that clerk. He was so full of
snap and vim, so cheerful and serene, that people liked to deal with
him, and hand him good long green. In busy times he’d stay at night to
straighten things around, and never show a sign of spite, or raise a
doleful sound. He never feared that he would work a half an hour too
long, but he those basswood trunks would jerk with cheerful smile and
song.
And ever and anon Brer Jones would say: “You’re good as wheat! I raise
your stipend seven bones, and soon I will repeat!” And now that Salesman
Number One is manager they say; each week he draws a bunch of mon big as
a load of hay.
But Salesman Number Two was sore because his pay was small; he sighed,
“The owner of this store has seven kinds of gall. He ought to pay me
eighteen bucks, and more as I advance. He ought to treat me white—but
shucks! I see my name is Pance.”
Determined to do just enough to earn his meager pay, he watched the
clock, and cut up rough if late he had to stay. He saw that other
salesman climb, the man of smiles and songs; but still he fooled away
his time, and brooded o’er his wrongs.
He’s still employed at Jones’ store, but not, alas! as clerk; he cleans
the windows, sweeps the floor, and does the greasy work. He sees young
fellows make their start and prosper and advance, and sadly sighs, with
breaking heart, I never had a chance!
And thousands raise that same old wail throughout this busy land; you
hear that gurgle, false and stale, wherever failures stand. The men who
never had a chance are scarce as chickens’ teeth, and chaps who simply
won’t advance must wear the goose-egg wreath.
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