Part 4

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.