A good hotel is a blessing, but the best hotel is still a hotel, and can be nothing more. One feels all right until the bellboy has fixed the key in the door and gone. Then you begin to realize that you are alone. There's but little difference, I imagine, in the feelings of a prisoner going into his cell at the close of day and those of a man in his lonely bed room in a hotel. There may be noises and voices, even songs and laughing, on either side of you, but these only serve to show you how lonesome you are.
I dislike to go to my room until I am forced to do so by the hour. I want to be among people and to see them about me. I go to my room under protest; I turn the key, fix the bolt, look at the window, open my valise, and wish I was at home. I think of fires, of sudden sickness, of to-morrow's trade, of to-day's orders, and of all the pros and cons of business. Through the night I hear scurrying feet in the hall, the late arrivals, the early risers, the bell-boy's raps on the doors, and finally the chambermaid's clatter, and her occasional turn on the knob, as a broad invitation to get up and out of the way that she may do her work.
I started out in the morning at B——, determined to do all in my power to make a good showing for myself. There is but one gun-store, but all the hardware dealers handled something in my line. It is a sleepy town. Time was when it had a large trade in the surrounding States, but of late it sells near home. A town of its size might and ought to support two or three good gun stores. I called on Bell & Co., gave the man who looked most like the buyer my card, and proceeded to say a word or two about something else than business.
“We have had some goods from your house,” said Mr. Bell, “but we never get our orders filled. There's always something left out. I don't like it. When I order an article I want it.”
Our house had always made a specialty of filling orders complete, and I was surprised at what I had just heard. I remarked this, and that I was the stock-clerk, and that I feared he was visiting on our heads the sins of others.
“No, I am not,” said he. “In the last bill we sent you there were two items left out;” and he found the bill and showed me our own memorandum regarding the items. To be sure they were goods we never kept in stock and never intended to. I explained this, but he took the ground that, in the first place, a house should keep everything in its line, and if they happened to be out of anything should buy it.
I did not attempt to contradict him, for it's a mighty poor time for that when you are hunting for an order, but I tried to change the conversation into some other channel.
“How is your stock of guns?”
“Full. What do you ask for the Lafoucheaux, twist barrels?”
“Ten fifty.”
“Oh, you're way out of reach.”
It's a pretty good plan not to disagree with a man at any time, but it's especially a wise course about this time.
“I can buy them,” said he, “at $9.”
“Yes? That beats me; $10.50 is best I can do. Who quotes at $9?”
“Why, Reachum does. So does Tryon's man. Do you know him?”
“I do not.”
“He's a lightning fellow; well posted; good natured; sharp as a needle, and a mighty sight better than his house. If he was in business for himself I'd buy all my goods of him.”
Yes, that was interesting; but I had other fish to fry.
“Do you need any Lafoucheaux guns?”
“Yes, if I can buy them right.”
“I will meet any price given you by Reachum, Simmons, or Hibbard Spencer.” I didn't want to; I wanted to get better prices than they were quoting to their mail trade, but I proposed to make myself solid with him at once.
“Well,” said he, “I'm waiting for Clayton. I rather promised him an order the last time he was here, and he's to be here in a day or two.”
If there's one thing in the wide world that would make a man work for an order that is the kind of speech to do it. I had no grudge against Clayton, but I was bound to get that order or know why I couldn't. I remarked that Clayton was a first-rate fellow.
“Yes, he is; he's quiet and modest, and knows his business; if he only let up on his whistle he'd be perfect.”
“I didn't know he was a whistler.”
“He is; he's always whistling under his breath as if he was trying to catch the extra 2 1/2 on cartridges.”
“Are you handling the U. M. Co. cartridges?”
“Yes; got them of Simmons. He offered to discount Reachum and I gave him the chance. What are you doing on cartridges?”
“60 and 10.”
This was cost, but I saw he had a good stock.
“What are you doing on Champion guns?”
“25 and 10.”
“And Zulus?”
“$2.40.” This was bottom on both these articles, and I would get my hair pulled if I sold at these prices, but I was in for it, and proposed to keep on. The partner came up to me and asked about revolvers, and very soon we were chatting about our line in detail.
If men really want goods, it is often difficult to get them to order. They have thought, like Bell, of waiting for a particular man, or they fancy there may be advantage in delay, or they have no figures but yours and are not sure you are quoting bottom prices. There is a disinclination in all men to buy even in good times, and in these days there is almost a determination in every dealer's heart that he will not order anything at any price, or under any circumstances. Of course, when a call comes for something he has not got he realizes that he has gone too far.
I spread out my samples, talked my prettiest, sang the special praises of my goods, and finally heard the welcome words: “You may send us,” etc. When one gets that far, it is his own fault if he does not go on. Several times in our work we were interrupted, so that the forenoon was pretty well spent when I was through. It was the hour when many men go to lunch, and I fancied Mr. Bell to be a man who occasionally might enjoy a glass of beer, so I suggested that we go out. He assented, and led the way to the nearest place.
What is there in the act of eating or drinking together that draws men nearer? It surely does do this, but I don't know why. In his store we were in the position of proprietor and drummer, at the beer table we were two sociable men.
“I do not often drink,” said he, “and there are times when I feel provoked at being asked out. Some drummers throw out the invitation as if it was part of their samples, others as if they saw I was cross, and proposed to spend five cents in beer to make me good natured. I occasionally enjoy a glass of beer, and when I don't feel like drinking it all Chicago couldn't make me drink.”
I remarked that I was pretty much in the same way.
“I've known a good many traveling men who went to the dogs from too much treating,” said he. “When I began business in '65 one of the best salesmen out of New York sold me my first stock. He was paid $5,000 a year, and was worth it. He went on a drunk here, but braced up in a day or two and went off all right. The last I heard of him he was dying in a hospital in Cincinnati of delirium tremens.”
“You must have known a good many men in your time?”
“Yes, sir; and knew a good many to go up, and a good many to go down. I was in the hardware trade then, and bought of Billy Smythe and John Milligan. Look at those boys now! Both of them in splendid positions. Poor Hank Woodbury, who sold me thousands of dollars from Sargents', went insane and died. I remember a man dropping in one day who looked a good deal more like a school teacher than a salesman. His name was Bartlett and he was selling chisels. He didn't know much about the goods, or about hardware, but he had a frank, open way of confessing his ignorance and his prices were all right. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“All the wholesalers know Bartlett; he's getting shiny on the head, but he can talk Miller's cutlery sweeter than the angels can sing. They tell me he's grown rich and lives like a lord; owns an island in Long Island Sound, and a yacht and other good things, but he's the pleasantest man who comes here.”
I like to hear about traveling men who have prospered; they ought to get on in the world if any class of men can get on. There may be houses that are prosperous in spite of their salesmen, but such houses are very few. And the man who can make money for others ought to be able to do that for himself, but this does not always follow. I have met some traveling men who were once superior salesmen and then steadily ran down. Perhaps whisky is back of it, or, perhaps, circumstances are against them, but every business man will have known just such cases. Mr. Bell and I discussed this until it was time to part, and then he said, “Come in again, I may see something else.” I felt that I had won his good will.
I left Mr. Bell, and went a square farther down the street to a hardware store, where our house had occasionally done some business. I was very familiar with the firm's name, and had heard a great many stories of Mr. Harris, the buyer. There was an air of push and prosperity in the store, and when I inquired for the buyer I was shown into the office. There were two men at the desks, and a man lying on a lounge; the latter proved to be the man I wanted.
“I don't feel like doing any business just now,” said he, “come in after dinner.”
This was pleasanter than to be told not to come in at all, so I made another call on the street, but did no business. As I took my place at the dinner table a man opposite me (we two were alone) nodded, and asked if I was selling hardware, saying he had seen me come out of Mr. Bell's. I told him my business, and he gave me his card: Tibbals, of Meriden, Conn. I've seen many handsomer men than Tibbals, but I have not often met one who was better company. He had been on the road, so he said, for twenty years, selling plated ware, and I expect “Rogers Bro., 1847,” was tattooed all over him.
“Have you sold Harris?” he asked.
“No, he told me to come in after dinner.”
“What a lazy fellow he is! That man is the laziest one on my route. I took his order this morning while he lay on a lounge. I asked him if he was sick, and he said he was not, but he was tired. Great Scott! just think of a man getting tired doing nothing.”
I saw Tibbals liked to talk, so I led him on to more details about Harris.
“Some folks are lucky,” said he. “When I came out here in '65 Harris was a traveling man, but the next January he was given an interest. The house was old, rich, well known and well liked. They carried everything in stock from a bar of iron to a knitting-needle. Harris took the books and gradually got to be the buyer. He used to have some ambition, but for the ten years last past he takes the world as easy as if he was a fat old dog.”
“Do they still make money?”
“No, I guess not. They don't buy as they used to, and they are always grumbling. But other men have made lots of money here in these twenty years and didn't have one-tenth the start Harris had.”
“Does he drink?”
“Of course he does. Great Scott! when did you ever see a lazy cuss that didn't drink? I've often gone over to the billiard-room and taken his order there. I believe, by thunder, he would leave a customer any time if a crony came for him to go off on a good time.”
I do like to hear an old traveling man. If he has the inclination he can give one lots of points. Tibbals went on:
“I ran across a man in Seebarger's the other day that I used to know in Toledo and Cleveland. He was stock man twenty years ago and ten years ago, and is to-day. He's a first-rate man; solid, reliable, competent; he seems to be content, and he used to seem content. But how, in the name of H. C. Wilcox, can a man be so satisfied with himself? I don't understand it. I should want to be going up or down; I wouldn't be a setting hen all my life.”
“You have seen many houses go up and down,” I said.
“Well, I have. I remember a Detroit concern that in '65 had a nice, small trade, but each year seemed to be doing better, until I used to think they were about the sharpest set on my route. Business was always good, and the goose was away up. One of the partners built the nicest house in the city, and lived like a baron. But, by hokey, he's on the road selling goods to-day, and another man lives in his nice house.”
“What brings them down?”
“Big head, almost altogether. They get the big head; they fancy they are all Claflins or Stewarts, and they suddenly drop through a hole. It's almighty hard to be successful and not take to worshiping yourself. And the younger men fall into the trap easier than the old ones do or did. Take such a man as Wm. Bingham, of Cleveland; I don't see any change in him in twenty years. Yet the house has grown to be a very large and very successful one. Did you ever know Tennis?”
“No, I did not.”
“In '65, Tennis & Son seemed to be the booming firm in hardware there. They were rich and had a big trade. The old man died, the boys ran through the business so fast that you couldn't catch it with a gun. Oh, I've seen a good many fellows go under in twenty years.”
“And you think it's always their own fault?”
“Not always. I've seen some mighty good fellows go down. I remember a Toledo concern—good workers, good habits, living economically, but '76 pinched them to the wall. I tell you it's hard to see such men fail. It's like death to them. They fight against it until it's no use fighting longer, and it's pitiful to meet them.”
“How is plated ware?” I asked, to be sociable.
“Like all other ware, mighty hard to sell. There's several Rogers, all genuine, but I'm the head one. Our goods are the best known and the best, but if another 'Rogers' offers 2 1/2 per cent, better, off goes my customer. Do you have folks so confounded close?”
I assured him, laughingly, that I had.
“Well,” said he, “it's funny. I'm not so all-fired close when I buy a suit of clothes; I don't leave a man if he won't throw in a pair of suspenders; but dealers will go back on their best friend for a tooth-pick. I'd like to sell a line of goods like Chris Morgan's, where the price isn't mentioned.”
After dinner I called on Harris and found him scolding the boys in the store-room. I saw he was irritable, and would have gone out if I could, but he saw me and I had to advance.
“D—n those Eastern fellows,” said he, vindictively, “I'd like to wring their necks.”
I had to appear interested and ask why.
“Because they're such infernal fools. Here's a case of 150 pounds just in by express with $3.37 charges; could have come by Merchants Dispatch for 69 cents. But the fool clerks they have down there have the most insane idea about express, and every little while will shove something like this in on us.”
“Can't you charge it back?”
“D—-d if I don't!”
He went into the office and ordered the book-keeper to charge up the difference. I could sympathize with him. As stock clerk I had seen many a box come in from the East by express that we were in no hurry for, and that was never ordered to be so sent. The parties doing most of this are not in New York stores, but at the factories. In the small towns where most factories are, express and freight bills are paid once a month in a lump, and the clerks and shippers do not see the cost of each shipment. This makes them careless as to such charges, and to receive or send a big box by express is a matter that does not need a second thought. But in the cities, where each package is paid for when delivered, the clerks soon learn how express charges count up, and they do not ship so carelessly.
Perhaps I said something of this to Harris, but he finally turned to me sharply and said, “What are you selling?”
I handed him my card again.
“Oh, yes; well, we don't need any.”
Goodness! How disappointed I was! I guess I looked it, for he added, “Unless you've got some d—d low prices.”
I assured him I had, and made up my mind to give him only our ordinary figures; I had heard our senior say once that the man who talked this way was never a very close buyer.
Just at this moment a very pert young man came in at the office door, walked up to Harris, handed out his card in a way that pushed me to one side, and said:
“Mr. Harris, we've got the best butcher knife there is in the market.”
“Better than Wilson's?”
“Yes, sir; better than anybody's.”
“How does your price compare with Wilson's?”
“We are about the same.”
“Then I don't want it. Wilson's are good enough for me.”
“But I can show you ours is better.”
“I don't want any better, unless it's at less price. Wilson's sell themselves.”
The young man looked crestfallen and soon went his way; I took up my story, but instead of asking about this, that or the other article I handed him my price-list and asked him to look it through. He stretched himself on his lounge, and taking the book was about to open it, but stopped to ask, “Have you got a cigar about you?”
When I had given Mr. Harris a cigar and he had lit it, and when he had once more resumed his horizontal position on the lounge, I proceeded to take his order. He was an easy man to sell. The stock was low on some of my goods, and he had a favorable impression of my house, so he ordered easily, saying but little about prices until we came to cartridges.
“Whose cartridges are you selling?” he asked sharply.
“We handle both the U. M. C. and Winchester.”
“No Phoenix?”
“We don't keep them in stock, but I can get them for you if you prefer them.”
“I won't sell any other.”
I was curious to know why.
“Just because I like Hulburt; he's one of the nicest men there is in New York, and I'm going to handle his cartridges every time.”
“But,” said I, and very cautiously, “don't you find some trade that will insist on having the other brands?”
“Yes, and they can go somewhere else and get them. I wouldn't buy a U. M. C. cartridge if there never was any other. Reachum uses their goods to cut prices with, and, d—n 'em! they can sell him, but they can't sell me.”
I finished the bill, then chatted awhile with him about trade.
“There's no money in business,” said he; “times were when you could make a profit, but nowadays it is a struggle to see who can sell the lowest. There's a revolver that I bought of Tryiton for 53 cents, and our men say he has advertised it all over for 55 cents. How the devil am I to pay freight and sell for 2 cents profit? There is no such idiocy in any business today as in the gun trade. A jobber has to fight against every other jobber and the manufacturers too. The U. M. C. folks are said to back up Reachum, and Simmons is supposed to have Winchester behind him, and away they go, seeing who can cut the most and be the biggest fool.”
“But is it not so in other lines?”
“No; the prices are not advertised to any such extent as with guns and ammunition.”
“Then you think the factories could stop it if they chose?”
“Oh, the factories be d—d! Seven-eighths of the factories are managed by school-masters. They get up their little schedule of prices just as they draw off their 'rules and regulations' for their help, and expect the dealers of the country to dance to their tunes.”
I thanked him for his kindness and went on my way very well content. But when I sat down to copy off the order I was put in quite a quandary. Traveling men meet such men as Harris frequently. He gave the order because he was friendly to the house, but he had not asked for prices on anything. What was I to do? I had several prices, for my figures were elastic, to offer trade, according as the buyer was a close one or not, and just where to put Harris I did not know. I proposed to ask him all I dared and not get into trouble, but to decide on what this limit was gave me some study.
The other trade in the city I attended to carefully, and was well satisfied with my work. In the evening I started for C. As I went into the car there were three men at one end talking rather loud and sociably, and I went as near to them as I dared. One of them had lately been out to Denver and that section, and was describing to his audience the wonderful perpendicular railroads of Colorado, I soon found that all three were connected with boots and shoes, but handling different grades or styles, so they did not conflict. Of course they were from Boston, and equally of course they were rather priggish. The talker was not more than 22 or 23 years old, but the immense experience he had passed through was more than wonderful, and the old chestnuts he got off as having happened to himself were beyond Eli Perkins' power of adaptation.
“I had a customer in Peoria,” I heard him say, “who picked up a goat shoe and said 'he supposed dat was apout tree sefenty-fife.' I told him it was $5.25. 'O, tear, tear,' said he, 'can't you make him four tollar? Shake dells me: Fader, ton't you puy ofer four tollar. You should see my Shake; he is only dwendy-dwo, but he got a young head on old shoulters.' I told him that, seeing it was he, I would make the price $5, and he ordered twenty-four pairs.”
He told this as if it was the most comical story ever heard, and he laughed both long and loud over it, as did his two friends.
“When are you going home?” one asked him.
“Next week; been out over two months; had a big trip, but I don't expect to do any more traveling.”
“No! Why not?”
“I'm going to be married.”
“No! Who to? Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes, I am; honest; going to marry the boss's daughter. She and I used to go to school together, and I honestly believe she made the advances to me, rather than I to her. Oh, yes; I'm all fixed; going to stay in the office and help the boss.”
I wondered what kind of a girl the “boss's” daughter could be, to marry such an ass as this, and I would have been glad to see the photograph of her that he passed to his friends, but I made up my mind that the “boss” was getting a rare prize in a son-in-law.
Sitting in the smoking room of the hotel that evening I heard some men mention names that were familiar to me, and I discovered the talker to be a groceryman.
“If our goods are close,” said he, “the sales are large and folks have to buy. I heard H. K. Thurber say that the best year's business that he ever did was on a net profit of 1-3/4 percent.”
“Phew! How much did he sell?”
“Eighteen or twenty millions.”
“I've been in Thurber's store,” said another, “and I tell you they have things down fine. I think H. K. Thurber had the best head on him of any man I ever saw. He was quick as lightning; his judgment was good; he had no soft spot for any one, and he didn't tell his plans to any one. But Frank, his brother, seems to be just as successful, and yet is very different.”
“He's the politician, isn't he?”
“Yes; he was a Greenbacker, and anti-monopoly, and lots of other things. Some of these days he'll be Mayor of New York, or go to Congress, and he'll be heard from. His public life is profitable now, for it helps to advertise Thurber's business.”
“Well,” said another, “You've got to get up mighty early to get ahead of Hoyt in Chicago. They don't sell as many dollars, perhaps, as Thurber, but they have sand, and they don't put it in their sugar, either.”
“I like groceries. A dealer has to buy them, whether times are good or bad. Folks must eat.”
“And take medicine?”
“Yes, and take medicine. And, by the way, do you know that the grocers are giving druggists a lively time on medicines? They are. Thurber has a drug department, and advertises them at 'a grocer's profit.' Lots of others have gone in, and the day will soon be here when a man can buy his sugar and quinine in the same place.”
“What will druggists do?”
“What have they been doing the last ten years? Sell teas and coffees, cigars and tobaccos, and fancy goods. Look at a drug store in holidays, and it is full of plush cases, placques, bronzes, and goods that were supposed to belong to jewelers. The bars are dropping down in every line.”
“Business is done in queer ways,” said a man who was sitting near me. “Tobacco men give away guns in order to sell their tobacco; coffee is sold by giving plated ware, baking powder by glassware, boots and shoes by giving dolls and sleds, ready-made clothing by a prize of a Waterbury watch, and soap by giving jewelry. Nowadays a dealer don't ask you about the quality of your goods, but about the scheme you've got to sell them. It's a demoralizing way of doing business, and ruining trade.”
“That's so! That's so!” was echoed from all sides.
Stepping into a hardware store early the next morning, after introducing myself I was handed a letter sent to me in the care of the firm. I was very glad to receive it, and accepted the pleasantly given invitation to sit down and read it.
No man should greet a letter with more welcome than a traveling salesman. It is a tie that connects him with home, he who is so wholly disconnected. He is always wondering what his house may think of this sale, or that price, or this failure to sell, and be he never so sure that he has done well, still the assurance from home that they recognize his success makes him happier.
Houses differ much in their manner of writing to their traveling men. A friend of mine who lately made a change told me his principal reason for leaving the old house was the letters they wrote him. “I never cut a price in the world, unless I had to do it to meet a competitor; but if I did it, no matter for what cause, I was sure to be reminded that I had not been sent out to 'cut,' but to make money. Yet when I came home and explained why I did it, I was told I had done the right thing. But they nagged me the next trip just the same, and I grew tired of it.”
I did not find any such letter as that. It was a hearty commendation of my work and braced me up for the future. “We miss you in the stock,” the letter read; “but we can put up with all that while you do so well on the road.”
I spoke of this to a traveling man. “Well,” said he, “I scarcely ever hear from my house from one end of the trip to the other. Our goods don't vary in price very much, and I'm not much of a hand at writing letters. I send in my orders when I've any to send, and when I've none I save postage. But I know men who have a printed form, and they have to fill one out and send home every night, orders or no orders. That's too much like being a sleeping-car conductor for me.”
After reading my letter I turned to Mr. Shively with determination to sell him a good bill. But I saw he had a customer, and kept out of the way, but not too far to hear the conversation.
“That,” said Shively, “is a better gun than the ordinary Lafoucheaux—a good deal better. I know you can buy of Reachum and Shiverhim & Gaily for $7.65, but there is all of $2 difference in the goods, and the man who should appreciate this the quickest is the retailer.”
“But I can't get a cent more for this gun than for the others; buyers will not discriminate.”
“You give them no opportunity. You take it for granted that they will go to the lowest-priced places, so you insist upon buying the lowest-priced goods, but I tell you, Mr. Thompson, you are making a mistake. A certain proportion of every community runs after the lowest prices; a large majority seek good value for their money, and a small percentage, who are fools, buy only high-priced goods. Then again, a share only of the trade will come to you or me. Our competitors, no matter how mean they may be, will have their own friends, and, try as we may, we can only draw a certain share of the trade.”
“That's so.”
“Of course it is so. And the dealer who looks these things squarely in the face and acts accordingly is the one who succeeds. I remember when I was younger I expected to do all the business in my line here. There was a run on Parker's gun. The list price was $50; they cost us $37.50. Every one was asking the list, but making a small cut if necessary. I had a fair trade in them, but I concluded I would do more, so I advertised the price $45. This did not accomplish what I expected, so I came down to $42.50, and finally to $40. I sold a few more guns than I otherwise would have done, but I did not make one dollar more of gross profit. In order to attract a few extra buyers I had been cutting down prices to men who would have bought of me, whether or no, and I stopped it.”
“I remember my first Parker gun,” said Thompson; “I called a man into my store to look at it, one who talked as if he knew all that was worth knowing about guns. He opened it, looked through it, sighted it, etc., then asked the price. I quoted $50. 'That settles it,' says he, 'I wouldn't have it; a good gun can't be bought for any such money,' and he dropped it as if it was a hot brick. The next time I showed it I asked $75, and I sold it at $65.”
“Yes,” said Shively, “the fools still live; I'm one of 'em. I suppose I do things just as bad as that every day, but I don't do it knowingly. Here's this craze over Smith & Wesson's revolvers. A man, for some good reason of his own, wants a revolver in the house. He hopes he shall never have to shoot with it, but for fear he may need one he buys it. The chances are ninety-nine in one hundred that he has never been a marksman, or if he was he is so much out of practice that he could not hit a door off hand, and with his nerves steady. I show him a good revolver at $2.50, or a double action bull-dog at $3. But he asks, 'Have you Smith & Wesson's?' Of course I have; single action $9.35; double-action, $10.35. I explain that the cheap one is as safe to the shooter as this is; that the chances are not one in a hundred that a man can jump out of bed excitedly and hit a burglar off-hand; that no burglar, hearing a shot, waits to be informed whose make of revolver is used, and that practically the cheaper pistol is the most sensible for him to buy. But he has a foolish idea that he is going to be a much more formidable fellow with a Smith & Wesson under his head, and he takes that. And because of just such idiotic men Smith & Wesson can ask a big price for their goods.”
I was much interested in that talk, and sorry when the two menseparated. But I was there to sell Shively some goods, and I went atit right heartily.
“I am rather tired of the gun business,” said he, “and would drop that branch quite willingly. It is being managed on the basis of brag rather than that of brains. Any fool can sell a revolver at 92 cents that cost him 90, or a gun for $7.50 that cost him $7. No brains are required to do that. The poorest salesman I have on the road sells the most goods and makes me the least money. The gun business has got into the hands of men who have just brains enough to run a ten-cent counter store.”
“Is it not about as bad in other lines?” I asked.
“No, not quite. There is much more detail to other lines. The gun business is compact and the line small. Consumers pick up names of makers quicker, and post themselves easier. A man buys a pistol or gun but once or twice in his life, and he gives the matter considerable study and shops around a good deal. Fifteen years ago Kittridge of Cincinnati used to be the champion cutter, but either he is out of business or has changed his tactics; now St. Louis and Chicago have gone into the postal card business and struck the 'Me Big Injun!' attitude. Here is a card one of my men sent in from a little town to-day. Shot quoted 80 bags $1.16! The man can't buy 80 bags in 80 months, and the house sending the card to him knows it, but it gives him a basis to work on us, and hurts us without helping anyone.”
“Yet you buy of these card men?”
“No, I don't, d—n them; I'd shut up shop sooner. There is no reason in the world for wholesale gun stores; the business ought to be handled by the wholesale hardware trade, and ought to be done in a legitimate way on a legitimate profit. But some idiotic manufacturer, either being hard up for money, or envious of a competitor, goes to one of these gun houses and offers a special cut price, and within twenty-four hours every little cross-roads dealer is advised of the cut.”
“I heard a man swearing just about the same way about screws,” I said.
“Screws? Oh, yes; that's so. Screws have been about as mean. One factory used the hardware trade of the country to club a competitor, and thousands of dollars of values were wiped out in the operation. I had, say $1,000 worth of screws, bought at 75 percent off. Russell & Erwin wanted to hurt the American, so down went screws to 80. That didn't settle the business, and next they went to 90 off. What was worth $1,000 at 75 off was worth but $400 now. And this cut was advertised everywhere, so that retailers insisted on getting it. The orders as sent in were not filled, and retailers' orders on us were much larger than before. By and by we had no stock, and then, without any reason other than their own sweet will, prices went up again. It was a most outrageous piece of business from beginning to end.”
“I am glad all the bad work is not done in guns,” said I, “but how is your stock? I think bull-dogs are going to advance.”
“I suppose they are; look at this letter.”
He handed me a letter from a New York house which read:
New York,——, 188—.
Messrs. Rhodes & Shively—Gentlemen:I have entered your order for 100 “Blank” Bull-Dogs at $2.85, prices guaranteed. Please send on specifications. A combination is about to be formed among the manufacturers, and prices will advance to $3.25. Yours respectfully,
F.B. Combaway.
This was news to me, so I opened the letter I had just received from home and read to him:
“We have just got in a large lot of 'Blank' bull-dogs and you may cut prices to $2.65.”
“Well,” said he, “what the devil does this man mean by sending me such a letter?”
“He undoubtedly believed there was going to be an advance and booked you for 100 revolvers.”
“What is your price on cartridges?”
“Fifty-nine per cent.”
“There is another smart combination. The cartridge association puts my competitor in the A class and gives him 50 and 10 off, but we, who have to sell in the same town and to the same men, can only get 50. It's the most childish and sickly combination that I ever saw. Manufacturers seem to sit up nights to see what infernal fools they can make of themselves. Now I tell you there are only two classes of dealers—wholesalers and retailers. If a man is a wholesaler he should have wholesaler's prices, and if he isn't he shouldn't. But your smart Aleck manufacturers want to rate them, as Bradstreet does, and give 12 1/2 off to the A class, 10 off to B, 7 1/2 to C, 5 to D, and list to E.”
“But a man who buys 1,000 dozen axes ought to buy for less than he who buys but 100 dozen?”
“Not a bit of it. If both men sell at wholesale they ought to be on one level, otherwise the smaller buyer can not hope to succeed. And I tell you it is much more to the interest of manufacturers that there should be six small houses in a town than one extra large house. Your large buyer is autocratic; he can break the market, and often does it to his own hurt, as well as to the damage of every one else. The average buyer is content to buy as low as his competitor, or if he gets a little inside price, keeps it to himself, lest his competitor shall know it.”
“You seem to have figured it out pretty thoroughly.”
“I have, and I know what I'm talking about. But of all the silly things manufacturers do, they never get quite so absurd as when they undertake to advertise.”
“Please explain.”
“I can explain what I mean by showing you this letter,” said Mr. Shively. “Here is a line of goods I proposed to handle, and wrote the manufacturer for prices. He has advertised them largely, but has not worked up a very large sale as yet, though he has succeeded in making them pretty well known. He writes me he will discount 35 and 5 per cent., and adds: 'Please do not quote or sell at better than 30 and 5.' What does he take me for? The list is $12; 35 and 5 off brings the net price to $7.41, and if I sold at 30 and 5 off, I get $7.98, or 6 per cent. on the investment, and I pay freight out of that! But this manufacturer thinks I am liable to cut under $7.98, so kindly cautions me against doing it. He must have a mighty queer idea of a merchant's profits.”
“What would you do if you were in the manufacturer's place, to begin with?” I asked.
“First decide on a fair retail price. Every article must first be judged on this basis. It is not 'What will the jobber pay for this?' that decides the cost of goods, but 'What will this retail at?' Having decided this, then settle on a discount from this price that will pay the retailer a fair profit, and in quoting prices to the retail trade stick pretty close to this. Then the jobber should have a margin of 15 per cent. at least, and yet be able to sell retailers at my price.”
“But suppose the goods will not allow all this.”
“They must allow it if they are to be handled by the trade in a regular way, and they will always allow it if proportioned aright; but what I complain of is that so many manufacturers are unable to comprehend the jobber's position. Here is a sheep-shear that is advertised to consumers at $1.25 per pair; the maker says the lowest he can sell at and make a small margin is $8 per dozen. There is a good margin between $8, factory price, and $15, consumer's price, but how is it divided? A retailer is quoted the goods at $8.65 and the jobber at $8. Don't you see that common sense would say $10 to the retailer and $8 to the jobber? If the jobber wants to sell at less than $10 let him do so (he is sure to do it), but the manufacturer should not.”
“Some houses ignore the jobbers altogether; what would you do with them?”
“They are all right; I have no fault to find with them; I can meet all of such competition, and without worrying. No factory can handle my trade so cheaply as I can. A great deal of my trade no factory can reach. Salesmen get higher salaries from the factories than we pay. They only get the trade they drum; there is very little of mail orders from the small trade sent East; what they need they want quickly. Both Russell & Erwin and Sargent & Co. have drummed the retail trade for years, but they have done jobbers no harm, and of late are very anxious to get the jobbing trade. I don't fear the drummers from the factories, but I do dread the low quotations they scatter around, because I must meet their figures.”
Mr. Shively seemed pleased at having a good listener, and had talked as if enjoying himself. While I was very much interested in his views, still it is probable I should have acted just the same even if I had cared nothing about what he said. No higher compliment is paid to a man than to place him over you as your teacher. I left him after getting a fair order from him, and passed into a large retail store.
That undefined line between the large retailer and the small jobber is a delicate one on which to tread. It is rarely that a retailer will buy of his home jobbers. Every jobber will sell more or less at retail; will tread on the toes of his retail neighbor, and the latter has a special desire to buy as low as the jobber does. Much of his stock is bought at such prices; on a large part he is assured by the salesman that he is getting as good prices as the largest jobber in the land. If one is not direct from headquarters it is doubtful ground to walk on, but it has to be taken care of.
I handed my card to the man whose face seemed to me to show authority and ownership, and I was not mistaken.
“Guns!” said he, “we don't handle guns.”
“But you do revolvers and cartridges.” I had seen them in the show-case.
“Yes, but we don't sell them. The jobbing houses are retailing at wholesale prices, and we poor retailers stand no chance.”
“You must retail at wholesale prices, too. You can buy about as close as they do, and you can do retail business as cheaply as they can.”
“Yes, but don't you see, no matter what our prices are they are retail prices, and for the same reason their's are wholesale; the idiotic public loves to be fooled, and will fool itself if no one else takes the job. What are cartridges worth?”
“Two dollars and ten cents per 1,000 for 22s.”
“Why, I can buy here in town for that!”
“I presume you can; we make no money on cartridges; neither do the jobbers here or anywhere else.”
“Well, if you can't beat the houses here, how do you expect to sell goods?”
“Oh, cartridges are but one item in a very long list, and, profit or no profit, people must have them.”
I always expect a retailer to tell me that I must beat his home jobber, or he will not buy of me. But I know that this is not often true. He will not buy of the home jobbers at the same price, for he feels that he is building up his competitor. I have seen a great many jobbers who had spent time and money trying to get control of all the trade in their own city, but I never saw one who did not finally give up in disgust. It is not human nature to be willing to help build up a man who is in any way your competitor, and often you would rather pay a trifle more elsewhere than buy of him. This may not be “business,” but it is human nature, and there are many places where the latter is by far the stronger.
I undid my sample roll and showed my revolver samples to Mr. R. Almost every revolver reminded him of something, and I listened to his stories with the interest of a man who wanted an order.
“There is no trade in the world so mean as this,” said he. “People come in here for a revolver, and I am almost sure they mean mischief with it. What am I to do? My refusal to sell one will not prevent their getting it, yet I hate to sell to them. Of course a large majority of those I sell are sold to people whom I know, and I know they buy them for proper use. But a woman will slip in here and slyly ask for a revolver, and I am wondering if she is going to commit murder or suicide. Many a time a man looks so woe begone as he buys a pistol that I make some excuse to keep him from loading it here for fear he will blow out his brains right in the store.”
“Did anything like that ever happen with you?”
“No, not with me, but it has happened. I read of a man going into a gun store, buying a revolver, asking the clerk to load it (doing it all calmly), and then placing it at his temple and falling down dead. I believe I would go crazy if such a thing were to happen in my store, and I always worry more or less for fear it may. It's a mean business at the best; I wish there were no revolvers made. What do you get for this?”
“Two eighty-five.”
“Well, send us six.”
I sold him a fair bill, and then spent the afternoon trying to sell two other large retailers, but without success. One of the men was snappish, the other good-natured but full of goods. I did want, very badly, to get a little order out of them, but when I went to supper I had nothing from them. After supper I went down to the cross-grained man's store determined to get so well acquainted with him that I could meet him again under different auspices.
He looked at me as if he expected to be pestered in some new spot, but I put him at rest by saying I had a little time to lounge and thought I could do it there. At this he dropped some of his frowns and began to be sociable. We talked until I was sure it was long after his shutting-up time, so I bade him good night, saying I was going off in the night.
“Don't you ever drink a glass of beer or wine?” he asked.
“Try me!”
“All right; let us lock up and go down the street a block.”