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Title: Letters From an Old Time Salesman to His Son

Author: Roy Lester James

Author of introduction, etc.: John Cameron Aspley

Release date: January 12, 2021 [eBook #64277]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS FROM
AN OLD TIME SALESMAN TO HIS SON ***

Letters from An Old Time Salesman
to His Son

By R. L. JAMES
General Sales Manager, Libby, McNeill & Libby

Chicago and New York
THE DARTNELL CORPORATION
1922

Published by
The Dartnell Corporation
Dartnell Building
Ravenswood and Leland Avenues
Chicago, Illinois

All privileges of reproducing
illustrations or letter press
expressly reserved by the
publishers

Copyright 1922
in the United States, Canada and
Great Britain
R. L. JAMES
Chicago

Printed by The Dartnell Press

CONTENTS
Page
The Boy Starts Out—Green and Gullible But Full of Pep 9
The Boy Writes That He Has Arrived as a “Regular”
13
Salesman
The Boy Thinks the House Should Accept Cancellations 17
The Boy Has Been Promoted to a “Special” Salesman 21
Dad Gives the Boy Some Sound Advice Regarding Team
25
Work
The Boy Is Having His Troubles as a Branch Manager 31
Dad Tells the Boy Why It Pays to Advertise 37
Dad Counsels the Boy to Throw Away His Knickers and Put
43
on Long Pants
The Boy Has Begun to Solicit Dad’s Counsel 49
The Boy Has Told Dad of His Latest Pet “Peeve” 55
The Boy Has Met the Girl—He Sounds Dad Out on
61
Matrimony
The Boy Has Been Bragging a Little 67
Dad Warns of the Evil Spirit That Whispers “You Haven’t
75
Time”
The Boy Is Given an Unfailing Formula for Landing a Bigger
81
Job
Hal Is District Manager Now—His Problem Is Winning the
87
Respect of Men
Dad Drops in on a Branch Manager and Finds the Spirit of the
93
Time
The Boy Gets a Chance to See Himself as Others See Him 99
Dad Tips Off the Boy to a New Job 105
Dad Gets a Lesson from a Trip to the Farm 111
Dad Takes an Interest in the Boy’s Big Sales Contest 117

Dad Surrenders When the Boy Lands the Big Job 123

The Story Behind These Letters

T HE most refreshing thing about these letters is that they are real letters,
written by a real salesman to a real son. Therein they differ from so
many books of this character. There is a certain satisfaction in knowing
that what you are reading was written by a man who has been through the
mill.
Another refreshing thing about these letters is that they were not written for
publication. The motive behind them is an interesting one. Mr. James began
his business career as a salesman, calling on the retail trade in small towns.
Shortly after a son came to bless his home—a red-headed boy who was
christened “Hal.” Like all men who make a success of their profession, Mr.
James believed in his work and his dreams of the future for his son always
pictured the boy as a traveling salesman. As the boy grew and developed
traits of character, what was more natural than that his dad, who shared the
boy’s problems, should visualize his son with these same peculiar traits
running afoul of the same pitfalls and snags that beset the path of every
young man in sales work? What was more natural than that he should try to
impart to his boy the secrets of his success as a salesman and manager of
salesmen, so that the son might use the father’s achievement as a short cut?
Through some underground avenue, best known to himself, it came to the
attention of the editor of the Libby house-organ that Mr. James—then a
department manager—was writing a series of most interesting human letters
to his boy. After much persuasion Mr. James agreed to the anonymous
publication of these letters—with deletions of a personal character—in the
Libby salesman’s bulletin. For two years the letters of an old time salesman
to his son were the most eagerly read feature of one of the most readable of
salesmen’s publications.
After the letters had run the gamut from salesman to general sales manager,
during the writing of which the author himself had risen to the position of
General Sales Manager of his Company, they came to an end. That they had
exerted a powerful influence in moulding the character of every Libby
salesman there can be no question. No man could read the letters without

being the better for having done so. And I feel that Mr. James in permitting
the publication of them in book form, so that the message they carry may be
spread out beyond the limited confines of the Libby organization and
conveyed to every man who sells things, has taken a big step toward
fulfilling the obligation which every man owes to his profession. If every
salesman could read this book it would do more for the cause of better,
cleaner salesmanship than any other one thing.
J. C. Aspley,
Editor, “Sales Management Magazine.”

THE TRAVELING MAN

How many of you remember the golden days of yore
When you were an uncouth urchin hanging ’round the village
store,
When the loafers saved the country—changed the tariff every day
’Mid the fumes of various mixtures of tobacco-labeled hay,
How you forgot the colored candles and the tempting cookie can
When the door was quickly opened and in walked the Traveling
Man.

’Member how some way or other conversation seemed to stop,
When he opened up his samples and your eyes would fairly pop
At experiences he related as he took his order down,
Talked about a three-ring circus—he was better than a clown,
How you wondered and you worshiped and resolved to break each
ban
That would keep you from becoming, some day too, a Traveling
Man.

Never seemed he ever worried, life to him was always bright
For you’d seen him in the morning and you’d seen him late at
night:
Altho’ he was always working you could always see his smile
Wasn’t put on—just came natural, catchy, bubbling all the while;
You resolved to be just like him, now deny it if you can,
Your day dreams were filled with longing just to be a Traveling
Man.

Years have passed—you’ve lived to see all your boyhood dreams
come true
And now you’re doing daily all the things he used to do;

Now you know he had his troubles which he smiled thru right along,
But it makes your memory dearer—that his life was not all song;
And like him you keep a-hustling, glad that you have joined the clan
That begets true admiration—Here’s to you, A Traveling Man!

—R. L. James

The Boy Starts Out—Green and Gullible But Full
of Pep
Dear Hal:
Your letter written as you had just finished your first week as a cub
salesman was received and I’ve enjoyed reading it over, two or three times,
because it brings out the fact that after all, the game doesn’t change a great
deal in fundamentals since the time I used to beat the brush.
I notice that you’re impressed with the fact that it was pretty easy for the
regular salesman Ryan to sell goods, and that you think he’s a wonderful
salesman. Now, of course, I never met Ryan and I don’t doubt from what
you say that he is fairly popular with the trade, knows the line and is a hard
worker, but from some of the things you say, I’m not exactly sure that Ryan
is the man who wrote the first book on salesmanship, but, of course, I may
be mistaken. With all due respect to Ryan, you must remember that your
company was manufacturing and marketing food products long before Ryan
was strong enough to shake a rattle.
Now, I’m not trying to belittle the honest sales effort of yourself or your
friend Ryan in the least, but I just want to be sure that you appreciate the
fact that your success last week wasn’t due 100 per cent to the siren voice
of your salesmanship, but that a great big piece of credit was due to the
solid foundation on which you were building your sales.
I notice you sort of “bragged” over the fact that you sold only the best
merchants in each town and those who were capable of giving orders worth
while. If I had to take my choice between five nice new ten dollar bills and
five old ragged ones, why, of course, I’d choose the crinkly kind, but if
there wasn’t any law against my getting both piles, I don’t think I’d be so
particular, because it has been my experience that the ragged ones can be
changed into just as many dimes and quarters as the new ones, and either
one is acceptable to the receiving teller when you pass the little black book
under the wicket on Saturday.

Now the matter of choice in selling retailers is just the same. With a line
like your company has, in the first place you should attempt to place it in a
big way in the best stores in the town, but there isn’t any game law against
selling it to the little fellow around the corner, is there? Nobody in “the
house” ever told you to beware of selling the small merchant, did they? You
bet they didn’t! In fact, every successful business has been founded on the
small customer, who afterward grew into the big one. You know when
Marshall Field first started in business his store didn’t cover a city block,
but I suppose there were some two and three-quarters per cent salesmen in
those days who thought Field’s business was too small to bother with, but if
any of those salesmen are still living you can probably find them now
acting as a nurse-girl to a wheezy taxicab.
Notice you say Ryan told you the reason he didn’t call on some merchants
was because there was no use—they couldn’t be sold. I’ll never forget, the
fellow who broke me in as a salesman told me the same thing my first week
as we were getting off a train in a little Missouri town that had only two
stores in it. He said that the one customer we sold there was the much better
merchant of the two and it was no use to go near the other one.
Well, I believed him, and made my one call in the town regularly and
received the one order and thought I was doing pretty well until one day,
when I called, my customer informed me that he had just sold out to the
other merchant across the street and that henceforth there would be only
one store there.
Of course, I went over and tried to sell the other fellow, but he naturally
wondered why I’d never called before and I didn’t have any very good
answer. The result was that I was beaten by my own stupidity and I had to
call on that fellow for six months before I ever scratched an order book.
Now that is only one of many instances I could tell you, but I’ve found that
there is one thing that, as a salesman, you must never take another man’s
word for and that is that So-and-So across the street, or around the corner,
will not buy. I’ve always found it a safe rule to call on every man who had
his door unlocked and the worst thing that ever happened to me in applying
the rule, was to get an occasional turn-down, while I have had the surprise
of my life many times, to see what big orders you could get out of a little
store.

The longer you sell goods, the more you’ll realize that it’s a battle from start
to finish, but just take it from the old man that you’ll have more luck
capturing an increase in salary at the end of the year with a whole army of
little dough-boy customers on your list than you will by trying to impress
the boss with a giant named Goliath who is a single-footer.
Your loving,
“DAD.”

The Boy Writes That He Has Arrived as a
“Regular” Salesman
Dear Hal:
Your mother and I have just finished reading your last letter, and while I
realize that you may be getting pretty well fed up on my letters, I cannot
help commenting on some of the things you have written about.
I imagine it is just about as much fun for you to get one of my letters as
holding a horse in a rain. You probably look on them as containing the
proverbial “good advice.” I can almost hear you saying more men have
starved to death on good advice than were ever killed on the field of battle.
All of that I’ll admit, but words from an old traveler of the road you’ve just
started on is a good deal like castor oil—you kick up a lot of fuss if you
have to take it when you’re young, but as you grow older you realize that it
didn’t hurt you a bit and in most cases prolonged the life of your “engine.”
I notice that you have gone just far enough in the selling game to discover
that your goods are higher priced than every competitor’s; the merchants
overloaded; business on the bum; the office manager a crab; the credit man
hard-boiled and the plant unappreciative of what a salesman is up against.
Well—now, isn’t that just too bad! But doesn’t it occur to you that with
everything so badly messed up, it is strange that the firm continues to worry
along and pay dividends on its stock, year after year? Of course, the buyer
tells you your prices are too high—otherwise he wouldn’t be the buyer, but
would more probably be rolling barrels of salt around in the basement for a
living—you don’t expect him to ask you to add a little to the price, do you?
And man alive!—if the goods would sell themselves your company could
replace you with a post-card.
Last, but not least, they thought best to hire a 1922 model eight-cylinder
salesman, like you (you scamp) instead of trying to get by with a two-
cylinder flivver that isn’t a self-starter.

Business is bum, eh? I’m sorry you told me because that’s the cry of the
quitter and I hate to think you would make a phonograph record of yourself.
Business is bad for some people all the time and similarly, business is good
for others most of the time. Now I’m willing to admit, understand, that
there are business lulls in all lines, but if you’ll trace back the origin of that
expression, I’ll wager you’ll find the thought was first expressed by one of
those hotel lobby lizards who got used to the buyer hunting him up during
the recent period of big demand and small supply. To the fellow who really
loves the game (and if you don’t you shouldn’t be in it) the changed
conditions, or the lull, if you prefer that name, only means more
“turndowns” which can be overcome by “more calls” and at the end of the
day, he finds he’s been too busy to notice that lull and his order-book may
reflect smaller orders, but gee—he’s got a lot of ’em!
And the office Manager’s a crab; and the credit man hard-boiled;—well
now, what do you think of that! Of course, the Office Manager should be a
mind-reader and overlook it when you send in claims without the proper
information, or reports only half-filled out, but somehow or other he isn’t—
no, he’s just human like all the rest of us—has a lot to do and the company
don’t pay him for “guessing” at things you do.
The credit man is another good friend and a salesman’s safety valve. Both
of ’em are the easiest men in the world to get popular with, but you have to
do your share and come clean. Sloppy reports and incorrect information
may be the easiest way out for the moment, but they never fool these
“watch dogs of the exchequer,” and after all, if it were not for them, your
pay check wouldn’t come out so regularly.
Now you’re wrong again, when you think the plant superintendent doesn’t
appreciate your problems. He gives them really more thought than you do,
for you have only one house to work with, while he has to try to answer the
demands of six hundred salesmen.
Now, Old Top, I expect you think I have stepped on you pretty hard in this
letter, but I haven’t intended to. If you weren’t my own boy, I imagine I’d
expect less of you, but it’s pretty hard for the old man, knowing that a great
big red-headed human dynamo, with hair on his upper lip, would bear even
the earmarks of a whiner, not to appeal to your better judgment by making
fun of the petty trials that every red-blooded salesman has gone through and

graduated from, just like you got over the nursing bottle, measles and
mumps.
But, anyway—read this letter twice, then remember, I’m laying a little bet
on you and am anxious to get your next letter.
Your loving,
“DAD.”

The Boy Thinks the House Should Accept
Cancellations
Dear Hal:
For the past few months I have allowed your mother to do all the letter-
writing from this end; in fact, Mother has become a pretty important factor
around here since she has been given the vote. She insists that the home be
in her name and my insurance in her name, so I’ve consented, and further
allowed her to carry my religion in her name.
My chief reason for not writing sooner is that I wanted to wait until you had
graduated into a “jobbing” salesman, because I knew you would eventually
do so, and that with the new job would come new problems to talk about.
Yes, the jobbing game is quite a little different from selling the retailer, and
I am glad to note that you have already found that the average jobber buyer
is generally a pretty thorough business man, quite cold and calculating, and
is more susceptible to quality and price than he is to a salesman’s
personality, funny stories or the odor of “moonshine.”
Note you say you think that your company is making a mistake in not
accepting cancellations of contracts with certain of their jobbing customers
who have been pretty hard hit on sugar declines, and that you’re afraid your
company will not do much business with those customers again, on account
of refusing to “accommodate” them.
Say—Boy—just how do you get that way?
You think your company should bear “part” of the load, eh? You know one
trouble with you aggressive, red-blooded, two-fisted “kids” (as you’ll
always be to me, Red) is that you don’t look backward or forward far
enough.
Now let’s look back a little. ’Way back last Spring your company came out
with their opening prices on the goods they sell for Fall Delivery. On
account, primarily, of the experience of the Wholesale Grocers over a long
period of years, these jobbers bought, and why? Because they wanted to

assure themselves of your company’s quality and against the possibility of
an advance in cost after the goods were packed. That was their reason and
now, why did your company contract? Because they wanted to assure
themselves of a market for a certain per cent of their pack so that their
operations would not be so speculative.
You know, no business that is purely speculative is fundamentally sound.
Now this contract arrangement between your company and the jobber was
not philanthropic on either side. For years this custom has existed in the
industry and has been found to be fashioned along the lines of sound
economics. It is not a one-sided proposition by any means, for, if it were, it
would not have obtained over all these years. Sometimes it has worked to
the advantage of the canners, but just as often it has worked to the
advantage of the jobber, depending entirely on conditions beyond the
control of either. While both canners and jobbers may have been laying up
treasures in heaven for years, neither has so far had sufficient prestige with
the management to cause the rain, sun and frost to act just right for the
proper development of fruit and vegetables, but under the contract system,
both are protected as far as possible to be fair to both parties.
Now, Red, remember the entire commercial fabric of our nation is built up
on confidence, and confidence can obtain only just so long as the integrity
of the business world is maintained by the recognition of the validity of a
contract entered into in good faith between buyers and sellers.
All right—now this year, as usual, after making these contracts with their
wholesale grocer friends, your company invested its money in tin cans,
sugar, boxes, other supplies and materials, contracted for acreage, labor and
everything else, bought a large amount of their supplies long before they
really needed them, but they must necessarily take no chances on failure.
They borrowed money at prevailing high rates to finance it.
Now listen, son, do you remember when you were about nine years old, you
wanted me to buy you a shot gun and a lot of other fool-killer arrangements,
and you thought I was awfully hard-hearted because I wouldn’t get ’em for
you? I would have liked to have gratified your desires, but, boy—it wasn’t
good business. So, also, the cancellations—your company would like to
“accommodate” their friends by canceling their contracts if it would help
them, but it isn’t good business. If they did so, they would be morally

bound to cancel every contract, if requested, because they should not do it
for a few unless willing to do it for all—they must treat all alike.
You know, everyone admires liberality, and similarly, most people like to be
liberal, but don’t get away from the fact that in business you can be liberal
only up to a certain point, and after that it becomes damfoolishness; and
don’t worry about losing the friendship of the customer requesting
cancellation. Any business man will admire you for being a business man
instead of a jelly-fish. He knows he has no good business reason for
expecting you to cancel and, son, you’ll always make more friends than
enemies when you’ve the nerve to stand up under fire when you’re in the
right.
Your loving,
“DAD.”

The Boy Has Been Promoted to a “Special”
Salesman
Dear Hal:
Yes, I will admit that it begins to look like I never write you any more
except when you get a promotion, but I wouldn’t advise you to figure on
that too closely, because sometimes I’m liable to fool you.
As a matter of fact I’m not much for writing letters except when I have
something to say, and when you were a little fellow I found that while you
were susceptible to suggestions and advice, you were very quick to resent
overdoses, so I’ve come to look on my letters a good deal like beef extract
—a little of it in a whole cup of hot water is a nice thing, but no one relishes
the idea of consuming a sixteen-ounce jar at one sitting.
I was interested in your announcement that you had been appointed a
“special representative” and will travel out of Chicago doing missionary
work. I wonder if you used that word “missionary” advisedly, or if it merely
dropped out as a careless expression. Regardless of that, I’m sure you used
the right word, for as I understand it, that’s just exactly what a “special
representative” should be, but I am wondering if you are sure you really
understand the full meaning of the word.
The usual adaptation of the word “missionary” as used in business circles
is, “one who is sent out to generate, extend and foster business and all
things pertaining thereto, on a certain product.”
Now, the same relative difference exists between a salesman and a “special
representative” as does between a common or garden variety of preacher
and a missionary, but the big trouble is a great many people fail to analyze
that difference, which accounts for so many failures in the ranks of special
representatives and church missionaries.
Now, if you’ll go to the trouble to drop around theoretically, to a “Home for
Indigent (sounds like ‘indiligent,’ don’t it?) Business and Religious
Missionary Failures,” you’d find after talking with Exhibit A and B their

ideas of a missionary are a sort of a combination hand-shaking, chicken-
eating, solicitous, dignified, well-dressed hombre, who sort of exhaled good
will and felicitations, who didn’t have any duties in particular, but just
traveled around “for the good of the cause.” And, of course, it goes without
saying that that’s the reason why they’re inmates of the Home.
It’s true that a missionary is a sort of supersalesman, but it means “salesman
plus” rather than “graduate salesman.”
A real missionary goes into the highways and byways; as the old fisherman
says, “he ketches ’em where they ain’t.” He generates enthusiasm in the
salesmen he comes in contact with; his sales work is educational; he sets an
example for industry, sales ability, loyalty; he teaches the salesman to use
superior judgment in not selling too little or too much to a customer; he
irons out petty difficulties; he’s an exponent of the sales theory that
contemplates holding your head up, but not so high as to let a lot of little
orders go by under your nose without seeing them. Yet withal, he is
humility personified, which is the true mark of a great man.
Now, son, don’t tell me that I’m only telling you stuff that you already
know—of course, you know it—but what I want to know, do you capitalize
that knowledge one hundred per cent?
Just remember, Red, when you go out on these new jobs, there’s a Wrong
Way and a Right Way. You’ve traveled the road far enough to be able to
distinguish the sign posts. While the Boss and Dad cannot see everything
you do, it’s reflected in the results, boy; it’s reflected in the results!
Your loving,
“DAD.”

Dad Gives the Boy Some Sound Advice Regarding
Team Work
Dear Hal:
When Mother read me your letter announcing that you had at last been
appointed a Branch House Manager, as well as your comments on just what
it meant to you, I thought I’d take time tonight to unburden myself of some
of my views in that connection, that might be interesting to you at a time
when you were just starting the new work.
I am wondering if you fully appreciate the difference in your position from
a standpoint of responsibility.
Up to now, you have been working entirely for someone else and while you
are still subject to considerable supervision, in addition thereto, you will
now have others under your supervision—working under you.
Of course, you’ve been through the different stages of your company selling
and around branch houses long enough to have a good working idea of the
general routine of the work and I don’t doubt at all, but what you will
handle that end of your work in good shape, but right now, at the start, Boy,
let’s look at the bigger, broader things that are expected of you.
One of the first things that will impress you is just how poor a salesman
Smith is, over in the East territory and what great weaknesses that new man
over South is already demonstrating. Your hands will just fairly itch to grab
hold and do it all yourself, in your own way, which, of course, you think is
the only way, but WHOA—throw on the emergency, Old Top, you’re
skidding! You’re a hustler all right and a good man, which you admit
yourself, but, Boy, you just cannot spread yourself out over the whole
territory and run the branch too, and again, if your company had wanted
you to do all the selling they’d have told you so.
No, your job is to teach and lead others to do most of the selling, reserving
only the hard-boiled and nursing-bottle customers that the other boys
cannot land, or for some reason seem to avoid.

I want to bear down a little on that remark “teach and lead.” You know,
back in the old days before Bryan ever ran for President, which is longer
than you can remember, the popular belief was that the best way to get the
best results out of a man on any job was for the Boss to be sort of a mixture
of Simon Legree, pyrotechnic cuss-words, bar-room sarcasm and “Drill ye
Terriers, Drill” policy, but thanks to a revolutionary era which was directed
by common hog-sense, instead of the kind that the butcher buys in five
pound pails, that kind of man-management has been tabooed.
Yes, I know—I know there are a lot of things you’re not going to stand for
and you’re all right in it too. There are a lot of things you shouldn’t stand
for, as a Manager, but what I’m talking about, Red, is the best way to go
about to correct them.
Before you sit down and dictate that red hot, phosphorous, steaming,
sizzling letter to Hulbert on account of the way he emphasized his
unfortunate displacement of bone, where gray matter should be, stop a
minute, Red, close your eyes a minute and let this picture come back.
Remember when you were new, when you were beating the brush?—you
got in that town that’s always a Jonah; was raining and had been all week;
the farmers weren’t paying their bills; it was inventory time and it just
seemed like every merchant you called on was just a little more grouchy
than the last; no one wanted your goods, and after working hard all day in
the rain and snow, you ended up at a so-called hotel that made you think of
the Biltmore—it was so different!
You were hungry, but after a glance at the greasy fried potatoes, a pork chop
burned to a cinder and the inevitable bread pudding, you just swallowed the
lump in your throat and called it a meal? After sitting around the lobby
making out a few reports and listening to the senseless patter of a dumb-bell
in a checked suit and a pink tie, you took your little pitcher with the broken
handle, filled it at the faucet and went up to a sea-going bed that humped up
in the middle like William S. Hart’s pet broncho?
Remember, Red, how you worried yourself to sleep—sick of the whole
bloomin’ mess, but determined that if others could succeed, you could? You
got up in the morning, shaved in ice water, but stuck out your chin and
strode to the dining room? Remember the gum-chewing waitress whom
someone had told she looked like Theda Bara, who brought in a murky

glass of water and exclaimed in a breath, “Steakhamliver’nbacon an’ how’d
you want yer aigs?” You wouldn’t have known the coffee if it hadn’t been
in a cup, but you picked around like an old hen and sauntered out into the
lobby still unbeaten when the fresh squirt behind the register handed you
three letters.
Ah, Red—how you smiled! The first one was written in a round girlish
hand and told of the good time she was planning with you when you got
back to “headquarters.” The next one was written in an old-fashioned hand,
now a little scrawly and nervous from age, but it carried the “mother
message” of hope and pride in the success she knew was bound to come to
“her boy.” Things weren’t so black after all—you’d show those hard-shell
merchants you would. You were almost normal when you opened the last
letter, which from the envelope you knew was from “the Boss.” It read
—“Why don’t you send us some orders—we didn’t send you out to write
up weather reports; we don’t pay your salary to allow you to loll in good
hotels. Unless you do better next week, we’ll have to make a change.”
Bam! How’d you feel, Red? Now, honest—hasn’t it happened to you? Did
it fill you full of pep and enthusiasm and cause you to go out and just knock
the cover off the ball? You bet it didn’t and such things never will. That
kind of letter was written by a graduate hack-driver, not a real man
manager.
New, Red, listen—you were made Branch Manager because of your
experience, not alone in the product—not alone in selling, but experience in
Life. Your company thinks you have seen so much of conditions that you
know how to “help” the weaker brother over the rough places. Teach ’em,
Red, lead ’em! The only place for a driver is on the south end of a pair of
mules. A kind word here, a helpful suggestion there, will make your men
want to take off their coats to help you, Boy, and it is the cheapest way in
the world to buy loyalty.
And Red, don’t spend all your time telling the other fellow how to do it. All
men are not “from Missouri,” but the “show me” method carries a healthier
kick than volumes of sales talks.
You’re going to be a busy man in the new job, Boy, but Mother and I have
decided now that we’re glad we didn’t insist on your finishing your musical
education, for some day we know you’ll be a Sales Manager and I tell

Mother that if she had her way, you would now be playing the snare drum
in a jazz orchestra.
Let’s go, Boy, let’s go!
Your loving,
“DAD.”

The Boy Is Having His Troubles as a Branch
Manager
Dear Hal:
Mother and I received your letter several days ago and I have given quite
some thought to the problems you mention, because I wanted to advise you
right, if at all.
Note you say you are not meeting with the success you expected to, in your
present campaign and you attribute it to several causes, among them a
consumers’ hunger strike, conservative buying and lack of effort on the part
of the salesmen.
Well—now, of course, the Old Man may not know as much about it as you
do, but from several other statements you made in your letter, I’m
wondering if you have really struck the real reason.
I don’t want to misjudge you, Boy, but those reasons you give are becoming
so much of a chestnut to me—I’ve heard ’em so often that I’m pretty sure I
know their origin. I know that during the holidays—just before Christmas—
you could hear those records being played on almost any talking machine
that you cared to listen to, but I thought surely, with the coming of the New
Year you’d forget the “Stove League Chatter” and chase “Old Man Gloom”
out into the sunshine.
You know, I’m reminded of a fellow I used to know when I wore knee
breeches. Tom Foreman was a boy who was raised in our town and who
never knew what it was to run off to go swimming, rob a melon patch or
play hookey. His folks always dressed him nice and he was a fair student in
school, but he never batted over about a hundred and twenty-six in the back
alley league, so, of course, there was no farewell reception tendered him by
“the gang” when his folks decided to send him away to college.
Tom would come back to town for vacations for a brief visit, but somehow
or other his schooling didn’t seem to humanize him any and each time he
came he seemed to be just a little more “uppish” than the time before, but

he was very fond of airing his superior wisdom—sort of casting his pearls
before swine, as it were, even though we didn’t give him any encores.
In this particular vicinity the only game that was available was a few
cotton-tails and an occasional Jack Rabbit in the winter time, so that
hunting had become a lost art and the sportively inclined always looked to
some other sort of amusement.
We never knew exactly how it happened, but it seemed like the boys of the
Eata Bita Pie Fraternity or whatever it was, got to talking about hunting big
game over their pipes one night and Tom suddenly developed one of his
bright ideas which had been heretofore extinct and he took to bragging to
his fellow pie-biters about the exceptionally good hunting that was
available in the vicinity of his old home town. Although this was in the days
before prohibition, Tom had never seriously gone in for tonsil irrigation, yet
it must have been something that made him wax eloquent, for the first thing
we knew he had brought four embryo captains of industry down to our
town, all dressed up like a Roosevelt African party and they announced
their intention of going out on a big hunt. Tom, of course, was too learned
to ask any of the home-guard any questions, so they started out one spring
morning in full regalia.
The boys caused quite a little excitement among the fellows whose full
dress uniform consisted of a canvas cap with a coffee advertisement printed
on it, a pair of overalls and a fifty-cent shirt, but we held that excitement in
bounds until they came home in the evening. Of course, we never knew the
grewsome details, but along about seven o’clock that night, the hunting
party returned. The total bag of the day consisted of three ground squirrels,
a hawk, one rabbit and Lafe Benson’s tom-cat—and say, you should have
heard the profane vocabulary that those city chaps spilled every time Tom
came near them. Of course, Tom was their host and all that and they had to
end their remarks with an apology, but to sit around and listen you couldn’t
help but gather the idea that Tom graded a good deal lower than water
goods in fruits, when they classified him as a huntsman.
Now, I just mention this story in passing, because it brings out the fact that
Tom and his party hadn’t analyzed the situation. Their intentions were good
and they had plenty of equipment, but the dumb-bell that was leading the
party, Tom, hadn’t given the matter any thought and had no definite plan.

He was just hoping that through some miracle all the game for miles around
would just come up and plead to be shot.
You know, Red, some Branch House Managers employ similar tactics. They
have the product, the samples, the salesmen and the enthusiasm, but they
don’t analyze the possibilities—they don’t compare the sales with the
available prospects in a territory—they allow their salesmen to take a turn-
down from a buyer who should buy big, without attempting to make
another trial. You know an amateur hunter sometimes shoots into a flock of
ducks and wings a couple and you can sometimes stick a shotgun under a
corncrib and pull the trigger without looking and maybe kill a rabbit, but
the thinking hunter sees the game and does his best to pick ’em off, one by
one, and generally comes in at night with a full bag. A manager who allows
his salesmen to come out of a town that has five prospects, with two orders
and three excuses, hasn’t taught ’em right.
The hunger strike was in Ireland—Red—not in your territory! Conservative
buying can be overcome, by not being a conservative seller—SELL MORE
OF ’EM and OFTENER.
Your salesmen’s effort will not worry you if you don’t waste it—direct ’em,
Boy, ANALYZE—HAVE A PLAN!
Remember, if your next letter don’t tell of your being a top-notcher in your
campaign, it’s going to hurt the pride of
Your loving,
“DAD.”

Dad Tells the Boy Why It Pays to Advertise
Dear Hal:
The letter Mother and I received from you just last night proved very
interesting to me and I’ve been thinking about it all day, for you
unconsciously wrote quite an essay on advertising.
From the general tone of your letter, I imagine that you have not given any
serious consideration to the many ramifications of advertising and the true
meaning of the word, for you seem to think that those in charge of your
business have a brother-in-law in the advertising game whom they have to
support and that therefore, they’re spending a lot of money uselessly, that
they had better put into salesmen’s salaries.
Now, I’m not an advertising expert, or very much up on the line of
argument that a real advertising man would turn loose on you under similar
circumstances. All I know about it has been learned in just the old-
fashioned school of common-sense plus what I see around me every day
and I am more than surprised to think that a red-headed scamp with horn-
rimmed goggles couldn’t see certain signs as clearly as I do.
You seem to have the idea that because your line of goods is the finest thing
in cans on the market, and has been so for fifty years, that the world and
some parts of Missouri know it, never will forget it and chant it as an ode
before breakfast every morning and that therefore, the constant advertising
that your company keeps up is all unnecessary. I further gather that you
think the glib tongues of yourself and salesmen, plus the glibness of your
predecessors are entirely responsible for the business you enjoy.
Now, I’m not denying for an instant the insistent urge of the contents of the
can on the appetite of the consumers or the efforts—Real Sales Efforts—of
the hard-hitting salesmen on your company’s payroll, both now and in the
by-gone days, but I would like you to appreciate that those things were
nothing more than ADVERTISING and the other kind of advertising that
you are talking about is but another form that augments the other and that
all of it working together has been able to produce this present result and to

attempt to minimize the effect of any of it is as foolish as the argument of
the backwoods hill billy who argued against giving his son an education
because he had never had one.
Now, Red, you’ve traveled some and still do and I wonder if you ever got
acquainted with that black bound book with the red edges that lies on the
table in most hotel rooms. On the back of the book is a picture of a water-
pitcher and underneath it says something about being placed there by the
Gideon Society and if you ever looked in it, you’d find it was that (almost
obsolete to some salesmen) gem of literature known as The Holy Bible. No,
I’m not starting to preach—fact is, preachers are not the only ones who read
the Bible. I’ll admit that it isn’t always as lively reading as Ade or Ibanez,
but strange as it may seem to you, you heathen, this Book is not only found
in hotel rooms, but on the reading desks of our best citizens—and there’s a
reason.
You know, Red, the Bible isn’t an old moth-eaten account of prehistoric
people, as some might think, but it really contains some of the best business
stories that you can pick up.
Speaking again of advertising, if you’ll just open up that Book the next time
you’re in a hotel room, or can borrow one from the neighbors, turn to the
latter part of the Book of Genesis and begin to read about Joseph. For fear
you will not get to your hotel room from the pool hall soon enough, or your
own Bible is in the trunk in the storeroom, I’ll just tell you about it.
It seems that this fellow Joseph was kind of a hard luck individual in the
early days and he got off on the wrong foot with his brethren and was sold
into bondage and carried down into Egypt. He sparred around in Egypt for
several years, just like lots of others do in these days, without being taken
very seriously—sort of working the retail trade, as it were, when by some
clever bit of personal advertising, like stepping on a fellow’s foot or
something, he got acquainted with Pharaoh, who was the Woodrow Wilson
of the party in power at that time. It seems that Pharaoh had some kind of a
dream (this same thing still happens you know) and Joe had the good
Fortune to be allowed to interpret it. He predicted that there would be a
famine in the land following several years of plenty and he sold the idea to
Pharaoh so well that Pharaoh set up a Food Administration and appointed

Joseph as the Herbert Hoover of it and he immediately started a corner on
the grain market.
Well, to make a long story short—Joe had the right “dope” and just as he
predicted there was a famine fell upon the land, but due to Joseph’s
foresight, which was unhampered by politicians, there was plenty of food
for all and Joe became a great man. Joseph’s brothers who had mistreated
him when he wore knee pants, came down to see him and brought Dad
along and they were quite surprised to find him the Big Noise in Egypt, but
they were hungry.
Now, Joe had been raised right—was a decent sort of chap and all that, so
he welcomed them and persuaded ’em to go back and bring the rest of the
“gang.” They did so and the first thing they knew Egypt looked like Coney
Island on Sunday afternoon—just full of Jews, and the people treated them
fine because they were Joseph’s relatives.
Then, if you’ll skip on to the first few verses in Exodus, you’ll find a
sentence that speaks volumes. It says “And there arose a new king in the
land who knew not Joseph.” Now, get that Red—“There arose a new king
in the land who knew not Joseph.” What can be plainer than that? Did you
ever hear a better advertising argument? You see, Joseph got to thinking just
like you talk—he thought he didn’t need ADVERTISING.
The rest of the story goes on to tell how the Jews fell in popular favor—
they failed to keep their name, their merits and their accomplishments
before the people and a new king arose who knew not Joseph.
Now I only tell you this story in passing and tell it in the language I do
because it’s the only language you seem to understand. There are lots of
other good stories in the Bible—dig ’em out Red—they’re good for you.
Boy, listen! Advertising doesn’t mean just so much printer’s ink in the
newspapers, or magazines. That’s the most familiar form and it’s necessary
and produces big, but there are other kinds. You know the majority of your
trade never knew the founders of your company personally. When they
think of your company they think of you. You’re the point of contact. What
kind of an advertisement are you for the firm? Did you ever think of the
responsibility you are carrying as a manager of your company? Do you

know that every move, every letter you write, every position you take
means that you are portraying your company to someone?
In business a new king arises in the land every day. There’s a new retail
grocer—a new jobber—or jobber’s buyer on a thousand corners. They
know not Joseph—regardless of how good your product is, or how long
you’ve been on the territory, IT TAKES ADVERTISING TO PUT YOU
ACROSS IN A BIG WAY.
I’m going to bed, Red, hoping I haven’t bored you. Just remember that the
Old Man is always hoping that your personal label means as much as the
label on your company’s can—if it does—ADVERTISE.
Your loving,
“DAD.”

Dad Counsels the Boy to Throw Away His Knickers
and Put on Long Pants
Dear Hal:
Mother just finished reading your last letter aloud to me and while I know
my quick reply will sort of shock you, I cannot help but unload a few pet
ideas I have along the lines suggested in your letter.
If the proverbial innocent bystander, or casual observer were to pick up
your letter in the street and would take it seriously (which I don’t) he’d
certainly pick you up as hopeless, for the whole wail of your letter, in
criticising the way the home office is handling you in particular and the
sales organization in general, reminds me so much of the kind and
constructive verbal barrage that a Republican Senator lays down every time
a Democratic colleague intimates in public that his party won the World
War.
A little over a week ago, I found time hanging a little heavily on my hands
so I thought I’d take a run out to the Stock Yards and visit a little in your
company’s office. I don’t know why I did it—guess it was a little touch of
parental pride, or sentiment that must have come over me and I thought I’d
go out and let ’em kid me along about that red-headed son of mine.
Anyway, knowing them so well out there, I thought I’d enjoy the trip and I
wasn’t disappointed. Things have changed quite a little since my time, but if
I’m any judge they haven’t forgotten the Old Man’s admonition to “keep up
the quality” not only in the product, but also in the caliber of the men who
are running the business from the “boss” himself, clear down to the office
boy.
Then I sat down at the boss’ desk and just as I expected he had some very
nice things to say about you which, of course, were hard to take. After
talking to him as long as I thought I dared, I went over and sat down at the
desk where all the General Sales Department mail was being sorted and I
summoned up enough courage to ask to see the open files they had with
you. Don’t know why I did it—guess it was just because I was curious to

see how well you handled things and I suppose they thought they’d gratify
an old man’s whim by allowing it—anyway, they handed me a big bunch of
correspondence and I went over and sat down in one of the private offices
so I could digest it.
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.
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.
In the first place, I hope you haven’t acquired the idea that the place was
given you because you were the best branch house manager on the force;
the seventh son of a seventh son or because they thought you were too big

for a branch house manager. Of course, I don’t know how they arrived at
their conclusion, but if I were you I think I’d figure that probably they were
pretty short of District Manager material and just decided to try you out on
the job for a few months to see how you’d work out.
Don’t get the idea that I’m trying to make light of your ability—far from it.
The only reason I’m advising you that way is, I believe that thought on your
part would make for a more healthy condition and provide more of an
incentive. At any rate, the officials of your company, to all practical
purposes, are “from Missouri” and you’ll do well not to kid yourself into
thinking you have been especially ordained a modern Moses to lead the
children of Israel out of the wilderness.
Of course, I know you don’t think so, but I want to impress upon you that
your new job is no sinecure. Unless you have a perverted sense of what is
expected of you, you’ll find that your previous positions were child’s play
in comparison. You have taken upon yourself a world of responsibility that
must not be discounted. While you may believe yourself to be popular with
the organization under your jurisdiction, it’s a hundred-to-one shot that—
especially at first—you’ll be about as popular as the village drunkard at a
Sunday School Picnic. Your managers might have liked you as a brother
manager, but it’s only natural that they’ll accept you only on suspicion until
you’ve demonstrated to them that you’re a rudder on the boat instead of a
barnacle.
That’s your first and biggest job, old Red Top, and if you’re smart you’ll
realize that although the title may carry some prestige, the most important
commodity you have to sell at first is—Red. Be sure to differentiate
between the class of men you have been directing and those now under your
jurisdiction. Although your managers were once salesmen—they’re
managers now. Big, broad, clear-thinking, hard-hitting business men. You
cannot succeed without their respect and you haven’t got that to start with,
because you’ve yet to demonstrate. You cannot buy respect of these men
with fancy dinners, too much dignity, funny stories or “old maid” tactics.
Your authority of title or position don’t mean anything to them. You must be
first a “he-man,” the happy medium between a “yes-ser” and a chronic
debater, an exponent and amplifier of your company’s policies, a happy
mixture of hard work, tolerance, constructive suggestion and leadership.

Don’t hold that respect to be attained lightly—worry about it! If there’s a
single manager that will not co-operate and the others do, it would look as
though it were his fault—not yours, but if six out of the ten are luke-warm
after you’ve been on the job a while, that’s a condition and looks like your
fault and is plenty big enough to worry about. After you’ve burned the
midnight oil long enough on either of the two cases, you’ll probably come
to the conclusion that you will sell yourself to that one man, or get rid of
him, because a balky manager—a man not in step with the aims of the
company—the fellow who doesn’t believe in the policies and methods one
hundred per cent, is like a rotten apple in a barrel of good ones—if you
leave it there long enough, it will have the whole barrel on the garbage
wagon. But in the case of the six out of ten who are not working right, it
should be obvious that it’s another case of “they were all out of step but
Jim” so you’d better take yourself off to one side, hold a few star chamber
sessions and operate on Red. You’re the point of contact, Boy, between the
officers and directors and the sales organization.
During the war you heard a lot about morale, and morale is nothing more-
or-less than mental attitude—point of view. Yet, morale has overthrown
dynasties, won battles and brought success out of failure. The sales battle of
your company will not be won unless it is ever-apparent in the salesmen—
the salesmen cannot be expected to have it unless their managers believe,
with an infinite faith, in the aims, policies and personnel of your institution
and those managers cannot be expected to have it unless their point of
contact with the dynamos in the power house are capable of carrying the
proper voltage with an unbroken current, rather than be merely a broken
live-wire that can only sputter, fuss and shock those with whom it comes in
contact.
Boy, this has been a rambling letter and I hope the things I’ve told you will
prove entirely unnecessary, but you’re just now embarking on an uncharted
sea. You’ll no doubt run into breakers, squalls and stormy weather, yet,
there is bound to be clear sailing ahead of you if you’ll be ever alert to stay
off the rocks of conceit, leisure and intolerance.
Your loving,
“DAD.”

P.S.—Am sending you that hat you won on the election bet. You’ll note that
it’s the same size as the last one I bought you.

Dad Drops in on a Branch Manager and Finds the
Spirit of the Time
Dear Hal:
I’ve been reading a great deal recently in the newspapers and magazines,
particularly in articles relating to sales problems, about the new order of
things with respect to this year rewarding only fighters. In addition to what
you say in your letters about your own company’s activities, the bulletins
and circular letters you have sent me, it seems that every sales talk I listen
to, or read, bears down particularly on that very apparent change that has
come about in all business in recognizing changed conditions and cutting
your expense-cloth according to your result-pattern.
You know, you sent me a copy of a letter not long ago written by the Big
Boss himself, in which he said that they did not contemplate reducing their
man power, but he said he expected you to do away with all incompetents;
have one good man do the work of two mediocre ones and he intimated in
no uncertain terms that your company had no use for drones around its bee-
hive.
I have been just a little mite curious to get around and see just how literally
your organization was taking the instructions so I welcomed the chance that
presented itself last week when some business took me out of town for a
few days. I happened in a town, Red, in which your company had a branch
house (not in your territory, Boy, although I wished it were). This was what
might be called a baby-branch, in that it has been in operation only a few
months. Not having much to do, I dropped around to chat with the manager.
The thing that first impressed me was that although it was before eight A.
M. they were on the job and working. The next thing I noticed was that they
didn’t have any surplus office furniture to loll around in. In fact, after I
introduced myself and indicated that I was going to stay a few minutes
anyway, they had quite a time finding something for me to sit on.
A funny coincidence was, the manager was red-headed and sitting across
the desk from him was a red-headed youngster who reminded me a good

deal of you when you were his age. As I sat there chatting with the manager,
I just couldn’t keep my eyes off that boy. Evidently he was office manager,
voucher clerk, cashier, chief clerk and everything in the office except the
stenographer. The stenographer, by-the-way, was a young man about the
same age as the red-head who wasn’t bothered about having to powder his
nose, fix his back hair, or go to the rest room every twenty minutes like
some female stenographers I’ve heard of.
Both of these chaps were neatly dressed and a credit in appearance to the
office. About nine o’clock Red (I’ll just have to call him that) said to the
stenographer “Come on, Boy, let’s go” and both of them got up from their
desks and went out the door. I didn’t think much of that until a few minutes
later I heard the clanking of chains and squeaking of pulleys and looking
out I saw Red and the stenographer—now dressed in overalls and jumpers
—out bringing stock down from the third floor to the shipping floor by
means of a chain and pulley.
I questioned the manager and he said their business there so far was small
and his entire force was himself and those two boys. It was, of course,
obvious that had he a combination warehouseman and shipping clerk he
couldn’t be kept busy but about half the time, so the work must therefore be
done by his present force. I watched those fellows while they brought down
some hundred or more cases, stenciled them, piled them neatly on the
sidewalk in front awaiting the transfer wagons. When finished they came
back in the office, picked up their office work where they left off and went
to it. I was so interested in that combination that I made it convenient to
stay around there all day—I was afraid there was a joker in it some place
and I wanted to see. When the transfer man came Red went out and helped
load the goods onto the wagon. He wasn’t very big physically—just a boy I
tell you—but you should see him get a toe-hold on those pickle barrels.
Why, Strangler Lewis never had a thing on him in his palmiest days—and
smile—Red—why doggone it he was actually happy in that job and took
just as much interest in his work as if he owned the place.
In talking with the manager he got to explaining the different routes of his
salesmen and I noticed on the map that there were several large towns that
his salesmen didn’t touch. When I asked him specifically about them, he
told me he worked them himself and he gave me to understand that he
wasn’t one of those chair-warming “directors of sales” but a real, red-

blooded, hard-hitting he-manager—one who sent in orders in the same mail
with his expense account. It was very apparent that in addition to working
the trade he also found time to direct his salesmen, answer his
correspondence and be all that a branch manager should be.
Red, I walked out of that branch and down the street and do you know what
I was thinking of? Well, I’ll tell you—do you remember that grand old
patriotic picture of the drummer, the fifer and the color bearer, tattered,
wounded and bandaged, but with set jaws, courage and determination fairly
bristling from them—that picture’s called, “The Spirit of ’76”? Well, Boy, I
couldn’t help but think of the similarity of the spirit portrayed in the picture
and that evidenced by that two-fisted, working manager with his two
combination office-men, stenographer, shipping clerk, and warehouseman.
Now, of course, I suppose you’ve got men working for you who would say,
if you told them about this occurrence, that they thought it was beneath a
man’s dignity to do the things those fellows did and perhaps they’re right in
it too, as applied to some places and some conditions. I know all of your
managers cannot spend seventy-five per cent of their time out getting
orders; I know that office managers, clerks and stenographers cannot be
shipping clerks and warehousemen in addition to their other duties, but the
big thought I want to get across to you Red, is that here was a place where it
not only could be done, but necessary that it should be done if that baby-
branch was to get a foot-hold and live, and the beautiful part about it all
was, it was done, cheerfully, happily and with a determination to win just
like the spirit that was in the minds and hearts of those grand old boys at
Valley Forge.
You know, one of the chief duties of a district manager is to be continually
on the lookout for good timber—a sort of a scout for the Big League as
’twere. All I have to say is—keep your eye on that combination.
Your loving,
“DAD.”
P. S.—I’ll bet you a new brown derby that red-headed kid will not be
pushing pencils and juggling pickle barrels all his life.

The Boy Gets a Chance to See Himself as Others
See Him
Dear Hal:
Mother and I have been sitting out in the porch swing all evening watching
the neighborhood youngsters play ball in the street. In the bunch was one
red-headed boy, who, of course, reminded me a little of you when you were
his age and it was only natural that I got to musing a little over your
experiences and problems and I couldn’t help wondering just what kind of
ball you were now playing.
After the last youngster had heeded the paternal whistle and laid aside his
ball and glove for the night, the shouts died down, the street became quiet
and Mother and I sat out there in the twilight talking of you—your good
points and bad points—your fads, fancies and pet peeves. We fell to
discussing your qualifications for this job of district manager that you have
had now for some time and wondering if you were finding it possible to
control that bombastic, nitro glycerin, TNT disposition of yours, in the face
of trying circumstances that I know you have to face daily.
I don’t know that I ever told you, but I have had the privilege of knowing
and studying different district managers—not in your concern, but in other
lines where the problems are somewhat similar. I was telling Mother about
some of the species I had met up with in my time and durned if she didn’t
spring a couple of quotations from the Scriptures (just like Mother, isn’t it?)
that seemed to fit my line of musing so well that I just thought I’d use ’em
for a basis—a sort of Golden Text as ’twere and come in and write you a
letter before I forgot what I wanted to say.
The particular district manager I was telling her about at the time, was a
fellow whom I was pretty well acquainted with in the old days. He was a
bright fellow, one who knew his game about as well as any I ever met and
those in power in his company had every reason to expect him to make a
big success. He was a good salesman—had more than ordinary knowledge

of the fine points of the manufacturing end, had had a broad experience and
was a keen analyst.
This man was a likeable chap and had taken more than a correspondence
course in diplomacy and tact, so there wasn’t anything on the surface that
would indicate other than smooth sailing in his job, but the boys on the road
who ran onto him frequently, soon began to intimate to their confidants that
he wasn’t making such a success as it was thought he would.
One day I got hung up on a big deal where I had to wait over a couple of
days before I could get the signature on the dotted line and I accidentally
met this chap in the dining room of the hotel one morning. After he found
out I had a little time to kill he asked me if I wouldn’t like to go with him to
call on one of the branches under his jurisdiction. I guess it was curiosity
more than anything else that prompted my acceptance of his invitation, but
anyway, we went over to the branch in that city and all I had to do was to sit
over in a corner of the private office, read a newspaper—or rather pretend
to—and watch the wheels go ’round.
The first thing I noticed was a sort of new dignity that he assumed the
minute we walked into the office—pleasant enough and smiling as he
saluted the manager and clerks, but you know Red, one of those “holier-
than-thou” atmospheres seemed to creep into the room like a Lake
Michigan fog in late October. Not being familiar with the fine points of the
business I wasn’t able to get much from the various conversations that I
overheard during the day, but I particularly noticed that every once in a
while the manager would relate some particularly good thing that had come
to pass and invariably the district manager would lean back and say, “Sure,
I’m responsible for that!” or “Didn’t I tell you how to do that?” or some
such comment. Whenever those remarks were made I noticed particularly
that the manager’s face would sort of lengthen and he apparently bit his lip
a time or two, as I surmised, to keep from telling the D. M. that he too
should share in the glory.
Several times during the day while the district manager and manager were
discussing some problem, various clerks and stenographers would come in
for a decision, or deliver some verbal message and it was noticeable beyond
mistake that the district manager always answered the question, or handed
down the decision, regardless of the fact that the manager was the one

usually addressed. Later on in the day in discussing some situations they did
not always agree on all points and mild, but healthy, argument arose. In
such cases, the district manager invariably raised his voice to a high pitch,
to all appearances lost his temper and in effect, brow-beat and bulldozed the
poor little manager into an eventual agreement on the point in question.
When we got ready to leave, I know it was more than imagination when I
noticed the look of tired relief that came into the eyes of the manager and I
couldn’t help but feel a deep sympathy for him, because instead of
receiving helpful suggestions and counsel, encouragement and intelligent,
collaborated analysis, he had only been subjected to ill-concealed egotism
and arrogance, had been belittled in the eyes of his subordinates and
shouted at like a coolie-laborer on a steamship dock.
When I came to this place in my narrative, Mother just gazed out over the
chimney tops of the homes across the street into the canopy of stars that
twinkle over you tonight, the same as they twinkle over us and said, “Well,
Red will never be that kind of district manager, because he’ll remember that
part of the Scriptures that says, “He that exalteth himself shall be abased,
but he that humbleth himself shall be exalted” and again in Proverbs where
it says, “A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up
anger.”
I didn’t have any comeback, Red; I hope Mother’s right (she usually is) and
I’m not laying any odds on whether you remember the Biblical quotations,
but I am willing to vote with her on your being smart enough to keep from
assuming that cheap variety of dignity that only looks good on an
undertaker; that faculty of self-effacement when it means the strengthening
of another’s position in the eyes of his subordinates and having the breeding
to speak with firmness, but in a low voice, that can only make for respect
and withal, a love—if you please—in the hearts of your fellow-workers that
is more priceless than empty-sounding titles, fame, or five figures on the
salary check.
Your loving,
“DAD.”

Dad Tips Off the Boy to a New Job
Dear Hal:
I got a letter the other day from an optimistic friend of mine out in the short
grass country, where the principal industry is cattle raising. He admitted
that, like all other business his particular line had gone through its
depression, but I couldn’t help but be impressed with his cheerfulness.
Among other things, he told me that they had experienced an awful dry
spell out his way, but that the cattle business wasn’t so bad after all. He
seemed to be full of pity for the poor hog raiser, for he said that it had been
so dry that the natives had to soak up their hogs by turning water on them
before they could get them to hold slop.
Somehow this set me to thinking about your business and having a little
spare time on my hands I thought I’d drop down to the main office of your
company to renew old acquaintances and to listen to the gossip. When I got
down there, the first thing that impressed me was the pruning that had been
going on in the office force. I didn’t see any strange faces to speak of on my
visit, but I noticed the absence of a good many whose duties during the war
period were no doubt dignified by the title of First and Second Pencil
Sharpener and Envoy Extraordinary to His Flipness, the Office Boy, and
other strange and sundry nonessentials that crept into all offices during the
period of commercial hysteria that we have been recovering from in the last
year.
Everybody had their coats off and were working under high pressure and I
had considerable difficulty getting anyone to talk to me. I suppose it was
out of respect for the fact that I have a red-headed son on the payroll, that
finally got an audience for me with the Boss and we had a very pleasant
chat. He told me that business was much better than it had been and took
me down past the order desk where the old time activity was beginning to
show again. He always takes me into his confidence in illustrating his
points and I was particularly impressed by some of the letters from
salesman managers that were coming in.

It was really amusing to a fellow like me, Red, who has been out of touch
with the present situation to quite an extent, particularly his illustrations of
the mental attitude of different managers. The majority of letters he showed
me were written in an enthusiastic, optimistic tone and recited the
strengthening of the market on certain items and were accompanied by
contracts for futures, as well as a spot business, while some few were
evidently written by managers who didn’t know that the wholesale grocers
had taken their last fall sugar losses and were still devoting their time to
thinking up fancy alibis for poor business.
After so long a time, we got to talking about you Red, and I suppose he just
wanted to tickle an old man’s parental pride, but anyway he said some nice
things about the way you were getting along. He told me something in
confidence that I’m going to tip off to you, although he said you didn’t
know yet, but am sure he will not mind my telling you. He said that the first
of next month you were to be brought into the Chicago office as one of his
product sales managers. Just about that time he was called into a meeting
and had to tell me good-bye hurriedly and as a result, I didn’t get to find out
just what job it was, or whether it was permanent, or just a tryout for you,
but anyway, I went home walking on air for, regardless of what it is or
whether or not it is a promotion, it certainly will be a change of base for you
and will add to your already diversified experience.
Now Red, I’ve spent a lot of time in my life watching the antics (yes—I say
that advisedly) of some of these product sales managers and there are
several things I want to warn you of before you tackle the job. In the first
place, the biggest mistake you could make would be to get the impression
that all you had to do was to “direct” the efforts of the organization on the
particular items you were following. Of course, you’ll have some of that,
but if you think you will only have to dictate to a good looking
stenographer, you’re as mistaken as a republican candidate for alderman in
the first ward. And again, if on account of your army experience you
imagine you’re going to be top sergeant for the general sales manager and
let him carry the responsibility you’d better stick pins in your chair and
come out of it.
The only excuse for having a product sales manager is that the particular
product in question will have a “daddy” in the main office, instead of
having to be nurtured a la incubator and grow up like Topsy. Don’t think for

a minute that the general sales manager is going to do the thinking for you,
or lay down a set of instructions for you to follow out. I take it that you’re
getting more than twelve dollars a week now and if so, they expect you to
be “creative” and use that torch-thatched swelling on top of your shoulders
for something else beside a hat-rack.
Now get this clear to start with—everything the company manufactures in
your line is YOUR product. Yours to sell—it doesn’t belong to the factory,
the branch house, the jobber, the retailer or the consumer. It’s YOURS—the
weight of responsibility is on your shoulders from the time it comes out of
the retort until the can is peacefully reposing on the breeze-swept side of the
hillock in the city dumping-ground. If you think you can sit down and
dictate a “pep” letter to managers and salesmen, wave your arms and plant
Old Glory rhetorically in the azure blue of the heavens until some
temperamental manager becomes so moved by your chin music that he
orders a carload—if you think you have then accomplished something
worth crowing over, you better go back to calling on the retail trade. Those
goods are yours, Red—you’ve only then started them in the channel of
distribution and the REAL WORK for your think-tank has only
commenced. You must think up schemes—selling plans—watch stocks and
keep them moving—give advice and counsel to your managers—in a word,
you must be the dynamo that generates the sell-juice and believe me, it’s
your job to see there are no broken connections.
There are a lot of things about a product sales manager’s job that can be
well or poorly done, but I cannot begin to comment on all of them in this
letter. Am sorry I didn’t get to talk just a few minutes longer to your Boss,
for I’m curious to know whether they thought you were so all-fired good at
your other job that they gave you this, or whether somebody just left the
gate open and you sneaked in.
I haven’t told your mother about this yet, so I suggest that you write her a
letter and just mention it casual-like. After I get her comments I’ll write you
some more of my observations, which I imagine you relish about as much
as salt in your ice cream.
Your loving,
“DAD.”

Dad Gets a Lesson from a Trip to the Farm
Dear Hal:
Every year about this time I get a sort of hankerin’ for yellow-legged
chicken and striped gravy—you know, Red—not the kind you see on the
bill-of-fare in the cafes which they jokingly term “spring” chicken, without
going on record as to just what spring; not the kind that’s cooked all in one
piece and tastes like the pet chicken that Grover Cleveland raised when he
was in the White House; but rather that old-fashioned, unjointed, juicy,
tender, fried-brown country chicken that you’re sure first saw the light of
day about May 1st, this year.
Well, anyway, Mother and I piled into the old gas buggy last Sunday and
went out in the country just in order to satisfy that craving. You know, Red,
I never had a particularly strong leaning toward the farm or anything that
goes with it, with the exception of an occasional visit made with the sole
intent of just gorging myself on the good things to eat that the farmer
always seems to find right handy without having to haggle with the grocer
over the price. Not that I thought I was better than the farmer—not that I
didn’t appreciate that he was the backbone of the nation, and this and that
and this and that, but somehow or other I just never did fall for those poetic
rhapsodies and popular songs that usually tell in a high falsetto how dear
the old meadow and pigpen were to the heart of a prodigal son. You know I
always had the secret hunch that all of that patter was mostly bunk and was
written only for commercial purpose to be sold to and raved over by some
little mouse of a shop-girl that was trying to carve out a career as a counter-
jumper in a department-store basement or by some lonesome hick that had
come into the city expecting to conquer it and Cook County in three months
and was having trouble to rustle shoes for himself on his salary as a bus boy
in a one-arm chair feed-bag oasis.
I have made the mistake of looking on the farm as a sort of necessary evil
where they just put the seed in the ground every spring and then let nature
do its worst and the reason I didn’t wake up sooner was because I’d been
stopping too much at these near-farms where they advertise chicken dinners

for two dollars and have an electric piano and a toddle parlor just back of
the dining room.
On the way down to the place I was going, I drove up to a pretty likely
looking farm with a big red barn and went in. It was a fancy stock farm and
much to my surprise they had electric lights, radiators and an electric fan
over each stall. They had some blooded cows in there that they milked four
times a day—the attendants were all dressed in white like barbers in a loop
shop and the only thing that was missing was the blonde manicurist. Even
the pigs were washed and primped up and the thing that struck me so funny
was that the manager in his conversation actually showed that by running it
that way, it paid dividends on the investment. To make a long story short, I
went along on my journey impressed with the fact that the fellow who ran
that place wasn’t just indulging a fad or hobby but rather was making a
success because of brains and because he knew his business. That started
me thinking and when I arrived at the farm that had agreed to feed me for a
day I was viewing things in a new light.
When I stretched out on the cool back porch after a meal that can be gotten
only on a real farm—out there where the very sky seems to come a little
closer, where the traffic officer’s whistle would be sacrilegious and the
smell of burning gasoline was only a memory—I fell to talking business
with my host. I found that I had this farmer business all wrong. True, it was
a hard life and a gamble with the elements; true, the price of farm products
had been taking a merry toboggan; but I found a spirit of optimism—a
studied forgetfulness of the drab part of it—a highly scientific and
intelligent working out of a problem that formerly I had guessed was only
happenstance. My host had a reason for planting corn on the north eighty
and oats on the east quarter. The rations for his live stock were as carefully
planned as the contents of a baby’s nursing bottle. In a word—he knew his
business and as a result these minor factors of price declines and other
annoyances were only an incident in the successful carrying out of a well
defined plan.
Naturally, Red, I got to thinking of you and your work and I wondered if
you were thoroughly impressed with the necessity of your knowing your
business as you have never known it before. I wondered if you could tell the
Boss if he asked you right quick the price your competitor was getting for
every one of the staple products in your line. I wondered if you had a good

knowledge of which branches had too big a stock of certain items and just
what you were really doing to change that situation. I wondered if you
considered your slow stock report—your Bible—and the thing to really
worry over. I wondered if you knew how much the plants had of your
product—just how it was moving and just when you should recommend a
packing order, and then if such recommendation were made whether it were
based on it being the time of the year when the raw material was the most
reasonable.
I wondered if you appreciated that the successful marketing of your own
product rested largely on your shoulders—yours for the planting—yours to
generate enthusiasm over—yours to be posted on as no one else in the
organization.
Coming home that night I was telling Mother of the lessons that the day had
taught. I asked her if she thought that even you might not glean a lesson
from the farmer. It was funny, Red, to hear her. I don’t know why except
that to her, like all mothers, you’re still just her baby boy—either that, or
else you’ve been practicing your salesmanship on her, for she thinks that
you’re ’way ahead of me on the things I’ve been wondering about you. She
actually believes that you could take the man that first packed food in cans
and teach him something. Of course I didn’t argue with her because I never
won an argument with Mother, but I just made up my mind that I’d drop
you a little note and tell you that if you didn’t put the old one-two on the
jaw of that problem of yours by being the best posted man on your line in
the whole office, that it was going to make a serious dent in the confidence
of
Your loving,
“DAD.”
P. S. The only pessimist I found on the farm, Red, was a bull-frog that
croaked at night in the creek. He reminded me of a certain type of salesman
—he didn’t sell anybody anything.

Dad Takes an Interest in the Boy’s Big Sales
Contest
Dear Hal:
Since you have been sending me copies of all the circulars and bulletins
gotten out by the General Sales department, as well as your own
department, I have been kept pretty well informed as to what your firm was
doing and planning to do and I don’t mind telling you that I’m as interested
as a kid on December twenty-third, in this latest stunt you’re pulling—this
national convention of leader salesmen campaign.
There are several inferences that I draw from the literature that’s been put
out on it so far and I think I see some angles to it that may have escaped
you and I figure you might be interested in just how this all looks to an
innocent bystander such as myself, so I’m going to exercise my prerogative
of commenting copiously, as ’twere.
Before you get ready to tell me to keep my comments to myself, I want to
tell you about an introduction I once had to a brother knight of the grip. It
was in my early days of order-teasing that I met up with a prune peddler on
my territory by the name of George Shifflett. George was one of those
typical grocery salesmen of the old school. Happy, well formed, jovial, a
hale fellow well met, fairly radiating good fellowship and, at the same time,
a salesman plus. I was called in to a strange city, and before going I told
George about it and mentioned that time would perhaps hang rather heavily
on my hands. George sat down and wrote a little note of introduction to a
friend of his, whom he said would give me an entree to anything and
everything in that town. Although the letter was not sealed, I didn’t think to
read it, but as soon as I arrived I hunted up George’s friend and presented
my credentials.
His friend was also a peddler of the George type. He immediately opened
up the letter and this is what it said: “This is my friend—treat him kindly
and often.” Just how well George’s friend obeyed this admonition is neither
here nor there, and there’s no use rubbing it in by referring to the customs

of ancient times, suffice to say that the only point in the story in connection
with my relations with you is that in the comments I am continually making
on your business, I am merely trying to treat you “Kindly and often”—not
in the way George’s friend treated me, but I hope in a more beneficial and
less bibulous manner.
But, to get down to this leader salesmen campaign—I naturally begin first
to look for holes in such a plan, having gone through a good many
campaigns myself, but for the life of me I cannot find any in your plan. It’s
about the finest thing I’ve ever seen. You know the trouble with most
national campaigns is that you have one house, or one bunch of salesmen,
competing with another on a product on which the selling conditions vary
greatly, one part of the country with another. But, in this one the salesmen
merely compete with the salesmen at the local branch, in an effort to
determine just what man in each class is the better salesman on a fairly
wide line of products. I cannot think of anything that would create more
rivalry among your salesmen than your plans, for the convention program
that is laid out is both recreative and educational and the big point that I’m
sure will not be overlooked by the men is the opportunity it affords the
winners to become better and more personally acquainted with the men who
direct their movements and destinies.
You know, when I used to be a salesman I looked on the Chicago office as
being only just a little lower than the pearly gates—almost as unattainable
and a place that could only be reached in the way of a visit by the manager
and an occasional special salesman. I wondered how I could ever be picked
for a better job when the fellows who do the picking had never seen me. It
took me quite a while to break into that holy of holies, and as I look back at
it now, it seems I must have had a lucky star for I finally got in, but I had to
wait a good many years and I didn’t have the opportunity to win an
introduction such as is planned for the winning leader salesmen in your
campaign.
Now Red, listen to me—the success of this campaign doesn’t depend
entirely on the amount of enthusiasm that your department sales manager
and the branch house managers generate. Not at all—they’ll have the
enthusiasm in sufficient quantity all right—just leave that to the managers
and salesmen.

This campaign will be won by one thing—plans—Red, that’s the word—
plans. No salesman is going to kid himself into winning this campaign. The
fellow who wins will be the chap who first realizes that there has been a
change come over business in the last few weeks. He’ll have a good idea of
just who he’s gunning for and his list will include every merchant that has
hinges on his door. He’ll have samples and selling arguments on each of the
campaign items and he’ll not make the mistake of underestimating the
amount of goods that it’s possible to sell each customer. Last, but not least,
for the full length of the campaign he’ll be up in the morning before the
proverbial rooster has a chance to crow, and like the sign in the drug store
window, he’ll “work while you sleep.”
Red, it’s your job to lead. Are you giving those boys the suggestions and
selling arguments that it’s your place to supply? You know the finest
compliment that can be paid you at the convention is to have not one, but
several of those snappy winners slide up to you and tell you just how much
help you really gave in those plans.
Now, don’t give me the “busy signal.” Of course, you’re busy—why
shouldn’t you be, but listen Red—this campaign is the most important thing
that your company is putting on this year—make it your first and most
important duty—lead ’em, Red, lead ’em!
You know, Boy, every time I think of your job and your problems, I’m
reminded of the difference between a real live salesman in a clothing store
and one of the wax dummies in the window of that same store. Both are
salesmen after a fashion, and the poor wax dummy that sits behind the plate
glass all day is doing his best and helping to sell goods in a measure, but
Red, you never bought a suit of clothes of one of ’em in your life, now did
you? No, you bet you didn’t, but the boy with the Elgin movement and the
snappy sales argument, behind the counter teased many an order away from
you, now didn’t he? All right—now the thought I’d like to leave with you
just before I take off my shoes and make a midnight raid on the ice-box is:
That department sales manager chair that you’re sitting in was never
intended for the outer casing of a mummy—shake ’em up, Red, and make it
snappy!
Your loving,

“DAD.”

Dad Surrenders When the Boy Lands the Big Job
Dear Hal:
For once in my life, I confess to you that I’m starting a letter that I don’t
know how to write.
Mother and I just finished reading your telegram that announced you had
just been made general sales manager of your company. While it was not so
much of a surprise in one way—it has been a long while since you received
your last promotion and naturally we knew you would not be satisfied until
you had climbed even further up the ladder—still, I am somehow
differently impressed with this last elevation of yours than I have with your
previous steps.
I don’t know how I could better illustrate my feeling than to say that when
you were a little fellow about ten I started in to give you what I thought at
the time was training in the fundamentals of the different stages of
boyhood. I can look back now and see where I used to hold myself up to
you as a sort of example. Yes, I’ll admit now that I used to paint the Old
Man as being quite some fellow in his youth. While you seemed impressed
from year to year as the so-called schooling progressed and were interested
in my teachings, I realized finally when your voice began to change and a
peach-skin fuzz began to form on your upper-lip that you weren’t a little
boy any more. Altho I recognized your growth, not until your twenty-first
birthday did I realize that I must needs pursue a different plan, for lo—my
once little lad had suddenly grown to manhood and if you’ll remember I
ceased advising you against the pitfalls that the boy must guard against and
began talking he-man language from then on.
Similarly, from the time you started as a salesman for your company, until
the present, I have taken a keen delight in listening—sometimes with a
good deal of patience, but withal a great relish—to your trials and problems
as they came to you along the same old road that I myself had traveled and I
kidded myself into thinking, at least, that probably I was doing you some
good by tearing pages from my experience in the past and applying them to
your problems, and I never realized until just tonight that like the other

experience, I had been so busy being a pal of yours that momentarily your
gradual growth had escaped me and I must now look upon you in a new
light—as being the equal, if not the superior, in experience, knowledge and
acumen of the Old Man who’s tried to tutor you along the way.
General sales manager—Well, Boy, Howdy! My hat is off to you, Red, with
a couple of Salaams! Needless to say, I knew you’d get there and again,
needless to say I know you’ll fill the chair.
Just for tonight, Red, now listen—just for tonight I’m going to forget
momentarily your title and lapse into the old vein. After this, if you insist,
I’ll call you Mister Red, or any other title you wish, but I just cannot resist
the temptation of still imagining you to be the same old impetuous,
impulsive, don’t give-a-dam Redhead who used to put wrinkles into my
forehead, and I’m going to talk to you accordingly.
No, I never was a general sales manager, but I know all about how the job
should be run, just like Harry Sparks knows all about raising babies—he
never had any. Red, did you ever see that play, “If I Were King”? No? Well,
neither did I, but I imagine it’s something like the way I’m looking at this
new job of yours. I can well imagine your feelings, anyway—especially
these first few days after your appointment.
I know you’re leaning over backwards trying to act natural in this new job
of yours. Every fellow who comes up to wish you well you sort of look
over mentally and wonder if his good wishes have a real kick, or if they’re
about one-half of one per cent. You are painfully aware that there are those
in the organization who think you have a horse-shoe in your hip pocket,
while others wonder just how you got that way. One minute you wonder if
you look and act so that no one could suspect a swelling of your hat rest and
the next moment you’re wondering if the Boss doesn’t wonder if you’re
sufficiently dignified for the place. All-in-all, Old Top, I’ll bet you’re in a
peculiar state of mind and will remain so until the odor of mothballs and the
price tag wears off.
But, Red—forget it! You know they say that good prize-fighters, or the best
artists on the stage are those who are totally oblivious to either boos or
applause, and forget their audience in the intensity of their art. You’ve been
handed a real job this time and you should have neither the time, nor
inclination, to do other than put all your energy and ability into it. Simply

because it’s a big job, don’t think for a minute that you will not continue to
run afoul of some things that will make that old red-headed temper of yours
assert itself, but, Boy, you’ll have to handle it differently than in the old
days.
You have heard how certain supposedly big men when irritated used to
chew up lead pencils, turn over the desk and go thru divers forms of
brainstorms, but no, Red—that’s fiction—they’re not doing it that way this
summer. Do you remember the illustration I gave you one time years ago
when you got all “het up” because a barber had made a positive
appointment with you when you were in a hurry to catch a train and then
broke it, so you had to let the old brush-pile stay on? Remember, I told you
never to get mad at a man who was below you in intelligence and if that
fellow had any intelligence he wouldn’t have been a barber? Well, Red, the
old rule will work in the new job—always let the other fellow do the
getting-mad thing; when he does, he’ll make a fool of himself; if you get
mad, too, you’re getting down to his level.
Stick to the sales end, Red, as long as you’re in it, at least. Don’t worry
about how poorly the men in the other ends of the business handle their
duties. God in all his infinite wisdom has never yet produced a genus homo
who was capable of personally directing the manufacturing, selling,
advertising and executive ends of any one business. True, the president of
companies like yours does those things, but not alone, Boy, not alone. He
has a lot of high-class men like yourself specializing and directing certain
ends of it. Don’t be too big, however, to detect a good idea or suggestion
from those in other ends of the business. I once knew a great sales manager
who got the best sales lead of his experience from an office boy.
And, Red, be human—keep away from the clouds—keep your feet on terra
firma. From the time of the Man of Galilee who said, “Suffer little children
to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of
heaven,” great men of all ages and walks of life have realized that true
greatness was marked by humility. Have time, Boy, to listen to the story of
a problem solved that the junior clerk in the department is just aching to tell
you, and, Red, like the other jobs you have held, be a leader. Now more
than ever before must you, by example and precept, be a real leader of those
you captain.

Much of your success will depend upon those with whom you surround
yourself. Be ultra conservative in your selection. It may not have occurred
to you, but in choosing you for the big job those who had your selection in
their power observed pretty carefully whether or not you had character.
Character is the solid foundation of all success; without it no great heights
can be reached and kept.
Boy, I could go on indefinitely, but I must close. Even now, as the
realization of your present age and particularly your position strikes me
anew, I feel a sense of awe. I will not write you this way any more—I’m
done. Henceforth, my letters will be postscripts on the bottom of Mother’s
and will only tell of my adventures chasing a little white ball around a cow
pasture. The mantle has fallen on your broad and worthy shoulders—
instead of my telling you what to do, I’m resigned to have you give me the
post-graduate course, for as Kipling says:

“Tho I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”

Your loving,
“DAD.”

Transcriber’s Notes:
A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.
Irregularities in the salutations and signature blocks of the letters have been normalized
to a single form.
Words and phrases with different spacing or hyphenation have been normalized into a
single form.
Archaic spellings have been retained.
Variability in case of "boy" when used as a proper noun have been standardized to upper.
Cover image is in the public domain.
Mismatched ending quotes for nested quotes have not been changed.

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