Chapter II: Part 2

He showed me a dozen along the same line and ended up by saying, “You see, Dad, Red is a pretty good boy after all--it wasn't very long ago that he was made Manager and he sometimes overlooks the fact that more is now expected of him and we'll admit that some of his letters do smack of the kindergarten, but he's sensible and we're trying to teach him that we employ Managers to come to us _with_ a decision or recommendation, not _for_ one; something that we can approve or show him why it is impractical. In other words, to _think for us_, not we for him. And again, we are trying to pound through that red pate of his that stock he has is _his_ responsibility--must be moved in his territory--not shipped to a more aggressive brother Manager.

“Don't you worry, Dad, Red has his faults, but he'll grow up.”

So I left, Red, feeling that your company was a little more tolerant than I would be and I guess after all, I'll have to take some of the blame for your last letter, in that you're my son, but when I read that letter of yours--full of criticism, but strangely minus suggestions--I couldn't help mutter, “Take off the rompers, Boy, take 'em off--get on the long pants--you're a big boy now.”

Just remember--anyone can criticize, but the boy with the sensible suggestion for improvement and the definite logical recommendation, doesn't have to sit on the bench when they play the World's Series.

Goodnight Red--think it over.

Your loving,
“DAD.”

_The Boy Has Begun to Solicit Dad's Counsel_

Dear Hal:

Your last letter made me happier than I can begin to tell you. In it you related some of your problems and really _asked_ advice. I was beginning to think you are getting “fed up” on my unsolicited counsel but feel complimented to know you now want more of it.

But, leaving the personal side out of it, you know, Red, the smart man is the one who collects ideas from every one he meets, separates the wheat from the chaff and then capitalizes them, and it's a sincere pleasure for me to know that you've at last arrived at the age when you are big enough to admit that when brains were passed around you didn't get all of 'em.

So you're wondering what's the matter with your salesmen, eh? They don't seem to take things seriously and worry whether they get business or not--always looking forward to pay-day and that's all--eh, what? All right--your description of their attitude is so good that I believe I know just where the trouble is.

I suppose you were too young at the time to get the lesson, but, Red, your case reminds me of something that used to happen regularly when you were a little boy. Do you remember years ago when you used to have that brindle pup? He wasn't much to look at--had no pedigree, or anything, but was just plain dog--the kind whose only excuse for living was that he was a playmate of a freckle-faced, red-headed boy. Well, anyway, the little girl next door had a cat for a pet, if you'll remember. Similarly to the dog, the cat hadn't taken any blue ribbons and about the only thing she did worth mentioning now, at least, was to notify the family that claimed her, ever so often, that she was the proud mother of a mess, and I say it advisedly, Red, a mess of kittens.

But the Boss of the house didn't appreciate her being so prolific--not being as interested in cat farms as our old friend Charlie Emery. So ever so often, while you and the neighbor girl were out to a toddle party, her father and myself would sneak down in their basement, ostensibly to look over the last sad remnants of his private stock (which is speaking in an unknown tongue to you now), but primarily to increase the mortality list of the cat specie by holding each kitten in the bottom of a pail of water until eight of their proverbial nine lives had taken flight for cat heaven.

Now, Spud, your pup and Puss, the mother cat, were never what you might call affinities. Even though the two families with whom they were living were always close friends, the same measure of respect and esteem was not shared by Spud and Puss. As a result, every time Spud would spy Puss in the backyard he'd let out a mongrel yelp and start for her with the obvious intention of annihilating her.

Now the thing that used to impress me about this almost daily scene was that when Puss didn't have any kittens--no family responsibilities, as it were--when Spud rushed for her she'd turn tail and do a double-quick for the nearest tree, registering all the fear and retiring qualities that we come to expect in the female of the species.

But when Puss had kittens, still undrowned, particularly when she was enjoying a siesta in their presence, Spud could make his flying start with all the gusto and bluff that is common to cur tactics, but when he arrived at the point of contact Puss would bow her back, never budge an inch and show all the courage of the early Spartans. The result, of course, was that on such occasions the fun was all out of the game for Spud and he was clearly “sold” on the proposition that Puss could not be bluffed, and he'd beat a hasty retreat before getting within paw-length of the confident Puss.

Now, Red, that's all there is to the story, except the _moral_. Just consider the salient points. Same dog, same cat, same backyard, but different performance. Why, Red, why? Ah!--you've got it, I know. _Inspiration_--that's it--that's the word. Puss with kittens had an inspiration that Puss without them didn't have.

Now, Boy, take this lesson right home with you and apply it to your own problem. What your salesmen lack is _inspiration_, and you're the little doctor with the hypodermic to give it to 'em. Of course, it doesn't apply literally, even though some people do claim that the man with the big family has as many more reasons as he has mouths to feed, why he should make a success, but--I don't mean it that way, Red--I don't mean it that way. You must teach your men to _speak_ and _feel_ about _your company as_ “We,” not as “the house.”

Any man with a single spark of ambition should look forward to an eventual goal, considerably farther than the weekly pay-check. His permanency on their payroll and the advancement he should hope to merit, depends entirely upon the combined efforts of the company family. His success is their success, and without favorable results neither he, nor they, can prosper.

_Teach 'em, Red--show 'em their responsibility!_ Fire their minds and hearts with the fact that they're not working for the company--bless your heart, Boy, they _are_ the company to all intent and purpose on their territory, and either their lackadaisical or their aggressive, businesslike demeanor and actions will be interpreted by their trade exactly as they appear and the company will be so reflected. And when you tell 'em, Red, be sure that the _enthusiasm_ you have, which as you know, is the fuse that ignites _opportunity_, is showing in your eyes, your face and is reflected from your heart. _Enthusiasm--Inspiration._ Ah! Red, it's contagious--show 'em how proud you are to say “_We_”--show 'em that it's a privilege to be a part of an organization that holds the place it does in the firmament of a big business. _Sell 'em the company idea first_--then sell 'em the line.

After that, Red, if I'm not mistaken, you'll have 'em sitting on the edge of the chair, rarin' to go, filled with the kind of red-blooded courage that has made American ideas and American ideals a synonym for accomplishment.

If you sell your salesmen all that, Old Top, and keep 'em sold by your living example, I don't think you'll have to worry about the results they turn in. If that doesn't work, then the Old Man's experience with human nature is a failure and he'll be disappointed in his own judgment and the ability of his fire-brand son.

Keep me posted--I like it.

Your loving,
“DAD.”

_The Boy Has Told Dad of His Latest Pet “Peeve”_

Dear Hal:

Mother and I have a lot of fun before we open each of your letters, speculating on whether or not you're going to tell us of some unusual accomplishment, or air a pet peeve. So far, the peeves you've aired have been so imaginary that we have enjoyed them just as much as your successes, so don't harbor the thought that we'd attempt to discourage your letter-writing style for a moment. In fact, Mother thinks that my chief enjoyment these days is giving you advice in answer to the problems you mention and I guess she's not so far off, at that--Mother never is, you know.

So you're all “het up” and about ready to quit over the fact that the boss has put a “District Manager” or “General Man” over you, eh? You're not going to stand for all this “supervision;” if you're not capable of running your branch and working direct with Chicago, you want to know it--eh? And especially, do you want 'em to know that you're every bit as capable as the fellow they picked out as your so-called superior--and just where do they get all these new-fangled notions about supervision. Of course, Mr. So and So is a nice fellow personally, but you just don't intend to be bossed by anyone except the General Sales Manager himself and this and that, and this and that, and this and that!!! Whew! Gee! but our cat's got a long tail.

You know, Red, really you furnish me a lot of amusement. All I have to do to thoroughly enjoy myself after reading a letter like yours is to light up an old jimmy-pipe, get in the old arm chair, close my eyes and live over again the old days when you were a little shaver about nine years old. Whenever that white-headed brother of yours would get into a game of marbles or a checker game with you and Junior would begin to get a little the best of you, you'd throw one of those red-headed, temperamental fits of yours, kick over the checker-board, throw away your marbles, toss that vermillion mane in the air, chew up a couple of lead pencils and swear by all the by-laws of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer that you'd be tetotally dod-buttered and ding-busted if you'd ever play a game with him again.

The amusing part about it, Red, was that it was only a brain storm that I used to attribute to your general fiery disposition, for in less than five minutes you'd forgotten all the vindictive utterances and were playing with the brother again just as sweet and happy as you please.

Yes, it was funny, Boy, and I used to get many a good laugh, but Red, when you put one of 'em on paper at your age, I'll have to admit the only way I get a laugh is to try to think of you as a kid. As a kid, it was truly laughable, but for a fellow as big and as old as you are now--LONG PANTS--hair on your upper lip and wearing a vest n'everything--on the level Red, you're as funny as an epileptic fit--you're pitiful!

Now listen, Old Top, before you make up your mind to walk out and leave the company lying on its back gasping--just sit down a minute and let's talk this over. You've got all the confidence in the world in the “Big Boss” haven't you? You think pretty well of his judgment and wouldn't put yours up as being superior to it for a minute, now would you? Of course not! Now just let this thought ooze into that corrugated cast-iron brain of yours--your company isn't running a peanut stand any more--they might have been small enough one day when the Boss himself could put up the window-shades and sweep out the office every night, but that time has passed, Boy, that day is gone.

Admitting that, doesn't it occur to you that the Boss has to have a little help in running the business? No one ever made a success of any business if he didn't attend to it; if he didn't know what was going on all the time. You'd think anyone a lunatic who expected you to sell all the goods handled through your branch, deliver them yourself and do all the billing. You'd say it just couldn't be done, which is true and then you'd go on and sketch how you'd organize a force to do all of it with your help, of course, and you'd know what's going on every minute.

All right--now doesn't it dawn on you that you are expecting the Big Boss to be as ridiculous as the suggestion about your doing all the work in your branch, when you voice those one-quarter of one per cent sentiments, criticising him for calling in help to handle a far more complex problem than your little unit?

The General Sales Manager of a company like yours, which does business in all parts of the world, has a pretty big task cut out for him. You may be a conscientious, intelligent, hard-working manager, but you're human, Red, and being human, you're not always one hundred per cent right and it's his job to know all about you and the way you're handling your business, all the time. You're not foolish enough to think he can keep in as close touch as would be necessary to know all these things, with scores of branches, are you? Of course not! Well, all right then, just how is he going to do it? You know the answer just as well as I do--so granting that help is necessary and that he has to have someone to be his “eyes” in the field--who's going to do it and what would YOU call the position? The answer is obvious--he must have “District Managers” and if you were the Boss just who would you pick as a District Manager? I know just what you're going to say, so I'll say it first. Of course, he could pick the oldest managers on the force--and their experience would make good District Managers of them--mind you, but that would be wishing an awful hard job on those old fellows who deserve to take it easier than they could on a District Manager's job. The older managers have arrived at a place in life where they don't want to spend fifteen nights out of thirty on a Pullman and you cannot blame 'em.

The District Manager's title may sound awfully nice, but it's no flowery bed of ease, Red, believe me. All right then, if that's impractical, what is the answer? I'll tell you--they pick men who have had a broad experience in the game; men who have had good reputations as good housekeepers; men who know how to analyze branch house expense as well as sales results; men who are so constituted that they can give REAL HELP to a manager who is intelligent enough to use the experience and advice that is thus afforded. It's no reflection against your intelligence and ability to have one of 'em over you--why bless your old red-headed soul, the only man in this life who don't need supervision, that I know of, is a wooden Indian in front of a cigar store. He's bolted down--no brains--just a wooden man! Why even the officers of a company have supervision in the board of directors and back of the board are the stockholders, and boy, they're some supervisors.

And Red, don't let anyone of human intelligence overhear you question the ability of the man supervising--don't you know when you do that, you're questioning the judgment of the Big Boss himself and Boy, you mustn't do that because you're old enough to know better. Just put this in your pipe, Old Top, anybody nowadays who's holding a job that requires ability, has got it tucked away around his system some place, I'll admit that sometimes it's pretty hard for a youngster to see, but it's there, Boy, it's there. Some day you'll be a District Manager if you'll just quit standing on your own foot.

After thinking over what I've said, if you still feel like you did when you wrote your letter, go ahead and send in your resignation--they'll accept it and not pass any dividends either. I'm hoping however, that your letter was just a recurrence of one of your childish temperamental fits and if so, I'll laugh at it just like I used to. If not, I suppose I'll have to go down and try and find a job for you driving a hack, so please don't make it hard for

Your loving,
“DAD.”

_The Boy Has Met the Girl--He Sounds Dad Out on Matrimony_

Dear Hal:

Mother and I have had several executive sessions since receiving your last letter, and you can well imagine that I've received a lot of “advice” from her as to just how to answer it, but it's no use--the Good Lord so constituted me that I have to “speak right out in meeting” if at all, so if I'm going to advise you along the line you requested, I've just got to tell you how I feel about it without reservation, so here goes!

You didn't tell us much in your letter about how far this affair of yours had gone and it makes it a little difficult on that account. You talk like there's nothing “serious” yet and that you're just wondering about certain “features” of Life's greatest adventure. Well, I hope you're not kidding the “old man,” for I'm too old a bird to know that if you're all through with the overture, prologue and the medley of popular airs between the first and second act, that it's too late for me to try and break up the party, so if you're telling me the truth, the few words of advice I'll give may fall on fertile ground, but if not, Boy, it may sting a little, but anyway, you've brought it on yourself, as Delilah remarked to Sampson when he started the rough house in the Temple.

I have half a notion to send your letter back to you just to show you how little you really told us about Her. About all I've been able to gather, after reading your letter about five times, is that she's about the finest thing in petticoats that ever wielded a lipstick; comes from “an awfully old and respected family;” is the only child; has been raised a pet; is beautiful and accomplished (presume you mean by that, she can dress herself with the assistance of a couple of maids) and her “old man” has oodles of money. Humph! somehow that description don't thrill me a bit!

Now, Red, before you begin to get red above the collar-band, just let me say in passing that I don't mean anything personal about the girl at all--she cannot help it because she's that way, and there's just a chance that I've got her all wrong. No doubt she's all you said about her and then some, but if she is, I'm just wondering if you accidentally picked up a white chip on the floor, or just how you came to get a hand in the game?

Not that there's anything about it that isn't good enough for anyone of that description--no--far be it from me, Red, to run down the quality of your personal line, but your description doesn't mean anything to a fellow who has lived long enough to know that there's something more to this life than moonlight and honeysuckle. I can almost hear you say that the “old man” is hard-boiled, maybe I am, but there's a practical side to this matrimonial game and it is a pretty good thing to consider seriously before you go into the musical comedy features.

Now let's discuss this thing from a sensible standpoint. This “old and respected family” business is a nice thing, Red, but it will not add a single item to the order you get from the wholesale grocer around the corner: What does she know about sewing buttons on a union suit so you will not have to use up a whole card of safety pins? I've found that knowledge fairly essential in cold weather.

She's an “only child”--a “pet,” eh? Well, that's fine, Red. It's nice to know that you will not have a couple of “old maid” sisters-in-law to help you ride range and boss the outfit, but does she show any signs of being ambitious enough to get up at 6:30 A. M. and cook breakfast for you, or do you think you'd have to go around to the Greasy Greek's for your coffee and? Maybe that thought hasn't occurred to you, especially when standing under a Southern Moon when the Zephyrs waft the odor of the Lilacs; but, Boy, the Zephyrs should some day waft the odor of a few pieces of bacon with you on the receiving end in your own dining room, and you'll appreciate that more and more as your pompadour recedes.

I like that part of your description where you say she's beautiful and accomplished. That means a lot, Boy, but am wondering if you mean it the way I'd like to believe. God never made anything more beautiful than a good woman. She's His Masterpiece, all right--there's no doubt about that, but some folks' idea of beauty is different from mine. The cleverest word painter who ever wrote a massage cream ad, couldn't commence to picture that beauty--that beggars description--that rapturous smile that is born of the very whispering of angels which lights a mother's face when she hears the first cry of her new-born babe. Beauty--why, Boy--the symmetry or form and feature of a Venus pales into insignificance beside it, and the funny thing about it is no one woman, or type, has a corner on it. Of course, you've never dreamed of that example, but it's coming to you, Boy, it's coming to you.

And “accomplished”--well, what do you mean by that? Has she taken a post-graduate course in Victrola lessons, can toddle and sing in Society's amateur “Follies,” or do you mean you think she could some day referee a bout between a couple of lusty-lunged seven and ten-year-old boys, croon a lullaby to a nursing baby and keep the Sunday roast from burning, all at the same time? I'll say you want to get one that's “accomplished,” but it's a damsite more important to visualize just what they could “accomplish” later, than what has gone before.

Note you say “her old man has oodles of money,” but you forgot to mention whether he was a burglar, a politician, or a flat owner--not that there's very much difference, but I was sort of curious. Anyway, as I see it, that's the least important thing in your description. The “old man” may be a decent sort, after all, and may have got it by marriage or from one of Ryan's tips on the stock market, so it may not be his fault. At least, I don't see how that's going to affect you in the least. I know you well enough to know, Red, that you'll never become one of those parasites who, on account of having money in the family, find their most arduous duty the daily airing of a poodle dog on a string--neither can I picture you under any circumstances paying your cigarette bills with other than the coin you had personally earned, so I'm not going to comment on that feature.

Now listen, Red, I expect you think that I've been pretty caustic in the foregoing, and in order to let you win an argument I'll agree; but, Boy, this marriage thing is a more serious problem than you think it is. I appreciate that there are a great many requisites to look for in a wife that I haven't enumerated above. It goes without saying that you will choose eventually a girl fully worthy of you in intelligence, beauty, lineage and what not, but I do want you to come down out of the clouds--realize that there's something more to it than love and kisses and a cottage.

Remember the girl you choose will sit across the table from you for thousands of dinners. She may look awfully good in a party dress, but will she show up as well in a Mother Hubbard with her hair in curl papers? She may make an exquisite Welsh rarebit, but can she brew a real cup of coffee? She may be charming in the receiving line at an afternoon function, but can she build a satisfactory pair of rompers?

I've sort of born down on one feature, Red--I've done so advisedly, because in my opinion the deciding question, after all is said and done, is, “What kind of a mother will she make for my children?” If you can honestly answer that question and give a favorable one, the rest will take care of themselves, Boy--the rest will take care of themselves.

And, after reading this, Red, if the idea should come to you that maybe the “old man” don't know what he's talking about, just stop a minute--pause, Boy, and consider that it took some little picker to choose one who has come up to every one of these qualifications--your Mother! and the other half of the sketch knows that he'll always be proud to sign himself

Your loving,
“DAD.”

_The Boy Has Been Bragging a Little_

Dear Hal:

Mother and I have had quite a discussion tonight about your last letter and we've just about come to the conclusion that you're eating too much rooster meat, or something else with similar effect, for your last letter certainly shows that you're getting “cocky.” Of course, you may have reason to be, on account of something you're holding back. Maybe Mother and I don't quite appreciate just how important you really are, but anyway the local cigar man hasn't displayed any cigar boxes with your pictures on 'em yet, so we're forced to assume that you're just feeling your oats a bit.

I notice that you've arrived at the place where you complain quite a little about the damphool things the Chicago office writes you about and the asininity of some of their requests and plans. It seems they've insulted your intelligence by questioning some of your moves and that they certainly have had enough experience with you to know that you wouldn't do anything but one way, which, of course, is the right way, and you're getting tired of being bothered with so many bunglers and policies.

Now, Red, if you think that your otherwise good letter is going to kindle a single spark of sympathy in the Old Man, you're just as mistaken as if you'd torn your shirt.

The first thing I wonder about is, just how do you get that way? I suppose you've been working pretty hard, your digestion is bad, or else you've quit smoking or something else has turned up to change the even alto of your way, because the symptoms you are displaying are not at all new to me, or anyone else who has gotten over the college yell days of business life. No--we've all gone thru it, Boy, we've all gone thru it, and the only question in my mind in your case is, will it turn out to be only baby rash, or a genuine case of the measles?

You know, ever since Hector was a pup, pretty nearly every five-fingered snoozer has sometime or other in his life arrived at a place where he thought everything he did was one hundred per cent right and he formed a hundred and five proof pity for the poor unfortunate numskulls who didn't agree with him. It's a sort of childhood disease that has to be gone thru, like mumps, chicken-pox or hog cholera. The majority of the victims recover after a very brief illness and there have been but few cases where it actually killed the victim. However, there are numerous cases on record where it has necessitated an operation to remove the ego and quite a few instances where it has left the victim in such shape that they had to seek out-door employment like ringing up fares on the back platform of a street car, or riding on top of a hansom cab.

Now Mother and I are not very much concerned in your case, because we know you have a rugged constitution that will pull you thru the crisis, but we're wondering if it wouldn't do you a little good to sort of hold up the mirror and let you see just how ludicrous you look to the rest of the world while you're suffering from this malady. Remember how funny you looked when you had the mumps and when you were all broken out with Liberty measles? Well, Boy, if that brought the smiles of the onlookers, your present indisposition makes 'em burst out laughing.

Now listen, Red, your entire trouble can be diagnosed as just a perverted point of view and every time I use that expression I am reminded of a call I once made at a hospital when the nurse and the doctor called me in to get my first peep at a little squirming mite of humanity that afterwards learned to call me Dad. In my enthusiasm and paternal pride, I exclaimed “Some girl” but the doctor just shook his head and said, “No, you're mistaken--a boy.” Now Red, I wasn't exactly an idiot. I knew more or less about babies and all that, but the reason the doctor and I didn't agree was purely point of view. He knew, whereas I was only jumping at conclusions.

But to go back to your symptoms. Of course, I know you're going to tell me where you can point out where you were asked by Chicago to furnish information, or do something that you knew wasn't what they wanted--was nonsensical, etc., and I'll agree with you--now--think a minute! Chicago don't claim to be above errors, mistakes and cases of bad judgment. Of course not, and do you know why they make no such claims? Well, I'll tell you. It's because they've gone thru and gotten over the same illness you have. They know as long as they are dealing with the human equation, errors will creep in, but haven't you noticed, now be honest Red, that they don't jump at conclusions like you do and doesn't it occur to you that if they have found clairvoyance impractical as compared to cold fact, that they will naturally ask more questions, demand clearer explanations and expect you to conduct your end in a more self-explanatory fashion than otherwise?

The trouble with you, Old Top, is that when you get a letter from Chicago requesting a little, simple thing and especially if they don't go to the trouble to explain every reason why they want it, which they shouldn't have to do, you immediately begin to hunt for holes in it. Instead of thinking along the lines of how quick you can comply, you begin to wonder if there's a hidden meaning in it; if they couldn't get the same thing some other place, etc., and you burn up ten times as much energy and write more letters trying not to do what is wanted than you would if you'd just go about and do it.

You know, Red, when you were a little fellow you had the same symptoms, but I thought you'd outgrow 'em. When you were about nine years old and would do something that I thought you should be disciplined for slightly, I would frequently order you to go over and sit down in a certain chair. After so much hesitation you'd start, but you'd take a circuitous route, knock over the piano bench, kick the cat and eventually, if I kept after you, you'd arrive at the chair designated, but afterward, when in lower mathematics you learned the axiom that the shortest distance between two given points was a straight line, I thought you had gotten over it, but I guess not--eh, what?

Now to make you feel a little better, I'll admit that men higher up than you often get the wrong point of view and I'll illustrate. One time information came to the home office that a certain competitor was putting a special pack on the market in a certain large city, but not letting it be known that it was special by packing it under the same label that they were using all over the country. Naturally, this was important and needed quick investigation. Chicago wired their manager in that city to pick up some samples of that brand and send in immediately.

Chicago didn't go to the trouble to explain their reasons--it wasn't necessary and long telegrams cost money. A few days later they received a letter from this manager which read something like this: “I received your wire asking me to send you samples of Blank's Beans. I cannot understand why you should bother me with a request of this kind when all you'd have to do would be to go into any store in Chicago and buy the same thing, therefore, I am not complying with your request.” He even went so far as to send a copy to the Boss expiating on the asininity of the dumb-bell making such a request and, of course, expecting quite a pat on the back for his forethought.

I guess I don't need to finish the story; you can imagine the Golden Text that the Boss thought of after reading the letter, particularly considering that it was his suggestion in the first place.

Now Red, this means only one thing--if you're loyal (and you are) don't look for the holes in every proposition that's put up to you until you arrive at a position where your chief duties are to look for those holes. As long as you're working under someone else, give your superior the benefit of the doubt. He may make some mistakes, but don't be trying to read his mind. Don't get cynical--give the other fellow credit for having a reason for asking what he does. Get out your old yellow copy of Elbert Hubbard's preachment “The Message to Garcia” and note how that fellow, when given a task, didn't look for the holes in it, or question the motive, but went ahead and did it.

There's a lesson in it for you, Boy--get it!

Your loving,
“DAD.”

_Dad Warns of the Evil Spirit That Whispers “You Haven't Time”_

Dear Hal:

Mother and I arrived home without mishap and she said I should write you at once and let you know that we arrived safely and to tell you again how much we appreciated the good time that you showed us on our visit.

Am mighty glad I went to the office with you Saturday and attended your meeting with your salesmen. You were so busy just about the time I had to run away to make my train that I didn't get to tell you several little points that I picked up, but I guess I can tell you just as well in this letter.

You probably noticed that I made it my business to sort of “mill” around with your various men and engage them in conversation. I want to congratulate you on the class of men you have gotten together. They're a credit to you, Boy, and with that bunch of enthusiastic live-wires, I don't think you need to worry a bit about your results just as long as you direct them properly.

There was one thing that struck me very forcibly as I talked to your various salesmen. Every one of them had a great big territory and they freely admitted that they weren't calling on all their prospects; said they didn't have time and they admitted that they picked out the best and biggest prospects where they were pretty sure to land an order and then rushed on to another town and went through the same performance.

Now, Red, I don't blame your men for that condition--I think they are sincere in thinking they are doing just right, particularly because you have so routed them. Neither do I blame you, so all-fired much, because you just haven't given it enough thought so far, but listen--

Years ago, where I was raised, it was a great country for raspberries. As you know, the berry season is a pretty short one and the farmers raising them had to depend to no small extent on hiring a gang of boys just out of school to pick them. All us fellows were pretty anxious about that time of the year to earn a little pocket money and we descended on those berry patches like a swarm of bees. Usually, the days were pretty hot and when night came, we were a pretty tired bunch of Indians and although we worked pretty hard we hadn't earned a great deal for we were paid so much per quart.

One of the boys used to turn in about twice as many berries every day as the rest of us and the farmer used to tell us every night the reason he did so was because he put more berries in the pail than he did in his mouth. Of course, that line of talk was pretty good berry patch repartee, but it set me thinking because I knew I was just as quick as the other fellow; that I worked as hard and I didn't like raspberries anyway, so I knew I wasn't wasting any on the consumer's pack method, so, one night I caught up with the star picker on his way home and asked him for the secret. He looked at me and chuckled and said, “Come on home with me and get my Dad to tell you.” This aroused my thirteen year old curiosity, so I went along with him. When we got home we found his father on the back porch and he said, “Dad, tell my pal here what you told me about picking berries.”

It happened that this boy's Dad was one of those fellows who knew all about boys, so he didn't answer the question right off, but first began by talking regular boy's lore--all about swimmin' holes, how the fish were bitin', where we'd be liable to find an eagle's nest and a lot of the kind of things boys like us were interested in--you know Red, the kind of a Dad who just had you hanging on to every little thing he said and just making you wish you could go tramping with a Dad like that and the first thing I knew--before I realized it--he had me telling him what success I was having at berry picking.

After I'd described my methods and told him how hard I worked, he said, “Son, now listen to me, for this applies to berry picking as well as lots of other things--when you go into a berry patch, you'll find lots of boys running here and there looking for bushes where the berries grow the thickest. After picking a few minutes they get the idea that a bush a little farther down offers greater possibilities and they run over to it and keep on repeating the performance all day long. When night comes, they are tired out from their exertions and strange to say, they haven't many berries in their pails either. Now the way to do--when you go into a berry patch, stop at the first bush you come to and don't leave it until you've picked every berry--don't run aimlessly from one bush to another, but do as I say and when night comes you'll find you not only will have a full pail many times over, but you will not be so tired, because you haven't expended that energy of yours running around so much. In other words, “stick to your bush, son, stick to your bush.”

That's all there is to the story, Red. Suffice to say I took the old boy's advice and sure enough it paid dividends. Now the same thing applies to selling goods. It's human nature for youth especially, to chase rainbows and follow what seems to be the easiest way. When you get out of the bus in a small town, which has four big prospects that you know you can sell right along in a row on Main Street, it's quite natural to go sell 'em and then go to the depot and catch the first train out, but, Red--how about those three little stores way down the other side of the feather factory, about four blocks from the round house? Who is going to sell them? Their credit is good and they'll buy your goods if they get a chance. Of course, I know the argument that the little red devil who sits on your shoulder whispers in your ear--it goes something like this, “I just haven't time; I'd miss that train out; I'll pick the good ones and leave the little ones for my competitor--he has to live, etc.” and a thousand such logical (?) arguments, but listen Boy--you know and I know that the fellow who listens to those arguments is only kidding himself.

Did you ever sit down Red and analyze a day's work with one of your salesmen? Figure out just how many hours each day he actually spends face to face with a buyer? If you never have, it will surprise you both. Of course, I realize some time must be spent going from store to store, and from town to town, but regardless of that Red, the time you spend facing the buyer is, after all, the only time in the day that is really “productive time”--the balance is “non-productive” and in addition, it's expensive because you cannot make it up--it's gone.

The thinking Sales Manager and Salesman today cannot fail to recognize this, because the man who spends the most hours actually picking berries, gets paid more than the fellow who spends half his time between bushes.

Give my very best to 'em the next time you have them in for a meeting and tell them for me that in selling goods this year, I'd rather be a setter pup that stalks the game, than a humming bird that just dips its nose into what appears to be the sweetest roses.

Your loving,
“DAD.”

_The Boy Is Given an Unfailing Formula for Landing a Bigger Job_

Dear Hal:

I just put down the evening paper and came very nearly dropping off to sleep when your mother reminded me that I'd better answer your last letter tonight while I had the time and there was no company around.

I think I enjoyed your last letter more than any you've written recently, largely because it breathed a better spirit of optimism over general business conditions and your job in particular and I must say that it was the first letter you have sent me lately in which you were not “crabbing” about something or other.

I'm glad to see those symptoms. For the life of me I cannot see why a big, red-headed galoot like you, with a good job, a superior line of merchandise and a world of possibilities before you would find time to do anything else but figure out ways and means of capitalizing your opportunities to the fullest extent and I really believe you are “rounding to” and if so--if the signs don't fail me--you're just now putting yourself into a correct mental attitude to commence to really grow.

You know, Red, the only real place in life for a “crab” is in the bottom of the restless ocean. Of course, I know they occasionally get out of that sphere, but when they do they generally get gobbled up by some quicker thinking member of either the fish or the human family, so there's really no credit to be gained by trying to pattern after an imitation devil-fish.

I've done a good deal of thinking about that snappy looking bunch of salesmen you've gathered around you, as I mentioned in my last letter, and I've been wondering if you're going to turn out to be a good “picker” of men, or if you just happened to bump up against a kind Providence. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that you selected them carefully, with an eye to the future, but your responsibility has only begun now that you've separated the wheat from the chaff.

Next to trying to build a Ziegfeld chorus with a bunch of knock-kneed runners-up in a cafeteria, I don't know any harder job than trying to make business men and executives out of a bunch of potential baseball fans, pool sharks and dance hounds, but someone has to do it and it's not a colossal task, Boy, if you approach it with the proper amount of tolerance and patience.

Not so long ago, it was my privilege to accidentally meet the directing head of one of the largest industries in this country. As we chatted over our cigars, I inquired to what single thing he attributed the success of his company. He replied quickly, “The exceptional personnel of our organization.” Being in an inquisitive mood and finding him a willing--yes--an enthusiastic talker regarding his company, I further inquired the method in training men for higher and more responsible positions in his company. He replied, “Our organization some years back got away from the prehistoric idea that the secrets of each job should be locked in the heart of the man holding it.

“You know, in olden times, men were afraid to teach subordinates for fear they would become so proficient that they would crowd out the one holding the good job. The constant and ever-increasing demand for men qualified to hold the highest positions has generated a feverish anxiety and ambition to train men to take the place of his immediate superior, so that practically every man, from the office boy to the president, is competing with each other to turn out the most and highest caliber experts and executives.”

Waxing reminiscent, this great man related how one man in their organization, whose hair was now silvered by many winters, was the “daddy” over a hundred of the bigger men of the company--the man who chose and had trained over a hundred men to be capable of assuming the greater responsibilities of a great industry! Naturally enough our smoking-car conversation carried us to the discussion of just what was the measure of success in the business world and I think you can appreciate that I was not at all surprised to hear this man--this great captain of industry, whose very name in the business world was synonymous with great accomplishments--say with no little show of feeling, “If, when I pass out of active business life, it can truthfully be said of me that I was a builder of men, I crave no greater epitaph.”

Red, that man spake a sermon in one sentence! Boy, the pyramids of Egypt have already been built; man in his wisdom has built skyscrapers, bridged rivers and spanned plains, yet the greatest work of the artisan, the noblest piece of sculpture and the most magnificent monument of the ages is in your hands for fashioning. The organization that you have the honor to be a part of is a breathing, living thing.

If the men who serve under your direction, Red, are not allowed to grow--if their ambition is not aroused to a point where they fit themselves with your help to take your job, or jobs like it, you cannot hope to gain promotion. Leaving out the personal side of it, if yourself and men in similar positions accept your present positions with smug satisfaction and take no part in an effort to be constantly building, the foundation of your house will surely crumble as dry rot and decay sets in and your temple will some day fall upon your head.

And Red, don't be selfish to the point of being afraid of personal handicaps that you might impose on yourself. Your company needs trained branch house managers, district managers, sales managers and other executives. If they choose your right-hand man and leave a hole in your organization, don't grouch about it--don't complain about their having broken up your organization--Good Lord, Boy, what higher compliment could they pay you than to thus acknowledge that they consider you a builder of men? Just start in and train another, for the day you can honestly walk in and tell the Boss that you've trained a man who can fill your place better than you can, he will not waste much time finding a bigger and better job for you, Red.

While I think you're too young to really appreciate the pride one feels in the successes of their own children, you can take it from me it's some feeling and I don't know anything in this world that's so closely akin to it as the satisfaction and genuine pleasure one derives in watching the successes of those men whom you have personally coached in their earlier successes.

Think it over Boy! The duty you owe to your company, or the world at large, isn't at all performed when you have merely achieved personal success--why bless your heart, one graduate from Red's school is worth more to the company than a single sale of the entire output of their largest cannery.

Fate has entrusted to your keeping as likely looking a bunch of youngsters as I've seen in many a day. What are YOU going to do with 'em old Red Top? Are you going to be satisfied with just making good salesmen out of them--are you short-sighted enough to think that's all that's expected of you?

Mother and I were discussing these things the other night and she gradually led me out over my head in the argument. She always goes way back before my time and she did when she said that God made the first man out of a bunch of clay. The only comeback I could think of was, “Gee, what an inspiration that ought to be to Red, considering how much better material he has to work with.”

Your loving,
“DAD.”

_Hal Is District Manager Now--His Problem Is Winning the Respect of Men_

Dear Hal:

Jim Baker came by the house a few minutes ago and showed me a copy of last week's bulletin in which was the announcement of your promotion to the position of District Manager. Your letter of a few days ago didn't say anything about it, although you must have known at the time. Guess you wanted to surprise your old Dad, eh--what? But you didn't surprise me much after all, for I've been expecting something like that to happen to you for a long time.

Well--Boy--Howdy! I know you're proud of the promotion and I'm sure proud too, but I'm not going to do much back slapping for two reasons. In the first place, it makes your arm tired and the second place, it will not help you a bit to fill a District Manager's shoes. The very fact that you didn't wire me right after the job was given you is a good sign. I'm giving you credit at least for inherited modesty and if I am right in my diagnosis, I'm more proud still for I never knew a big man in my life who wasn't personally modest and I'm happier than I can tell you to think that at the outset you are exhibiting the ear marks of the man I'm hoping you are.

No doubt you are full of plans of what you are going to do in the new work and probably don't need any advice from me, but I know that by this time you realize that it's the old man's prerogative to make a few comments in each letter, so I'm not worrying a bit about whether you want them or not.

The position of District Manager is a big one--a whole lot bigger than some think. It's one of those jobs that a fellow can make just about as big as he wants to and, on the other hand, it furnishes an opportunity for a fellow to make about as big a jackass of himself as the proverbial Missouri mule, if you don't watch your step.