Part 3

The first letter I picked up from the pile ran something like this, “Attached please find a letter from Salesman Hooiszis, asking that we purchase an automobile. What do you want to do with it?” And, as I expected, the salesman's letter was typical of what could be expected from your letter. It merely said he “thought” he could get more business working with an automobile than he could by walking--no data--no estimates--no logical reasons, in fact no nothing on which anyone could base an intelligent opinion as to whether the request was justified.

Then I picked up another one of your letters that ran something like this, “Salesman I. M. Whatshisname was sick all of last week. Please advise if I shall pay him or not.” A flat statement with no recommendation as to what action you, as a Manager, would like taken.

Then I picked up a third letter that ran a good deal like this, “We have on hand twenty-eight Christmas Boxes which we have been unable to sell. No doubt some of the other houses have a market for them. Will you not please give us disposition.”

By the time I got through with that, Red, I'll confess I had mingled emotions. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I wondered if they were framing up on me to give my pride a jolt and I looked out the door at the two men who handled those letters--noticed the bald spots on their heads, the wrinkles beginning to show around their eyes and the gray commencing to come around the temples and, Red--on the level, Boy, I didn't wonder.

I couldn't help but think of the story of the long suffering Job or how the songs and stories of the centuries have told of the long suffering patience of Mother Love and I'll confess I couldn't figure it out, for those fellows didn't have the appearance of the Job I'd had described to me, nor did they resemble doting mammas, so I gathered up the bunch of letters, red in the face I'll admit, and went out and asked one of 'em how in the double-jointed, concentrated essence of modern profanity they managed to reconcile their keeping you on the payroll after writing such letters as those first three. He looked at 'em, scratched his bald spot, smiled--think of it, Red, (you red-headed pepper-box) smiled when I was all ready for the thirty-second degree of apoplexy and said, “Well, Dad, the only trouble with you is that you quit after reading the first three.” Then he took up the rest, one by one, and showed me stuff that gradually brought me down to earth.

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.