I think a merchant who does not want to buy usually feels uneasy to have a traveling man about the store. He keeps up all the barriers that he can, so that he shall not be led farther than he intends to go. If he becomes very friendly it may be all the harder for him to say “no” by and by, so he keeps up an uncomfortable stiffness and is glad to see the salesman go. I have seen this, or thought I saw it, often and often in my own case. I could not get the dealer to be friendly with me while I was in his store, but perhaps I met him in the hotel and found him cordial and sociable.
The retail dealer who had invited me to take a glass of beer with him had been rather stiff in his own store, but the moment he turned the key in the lock he seemed to throw away his coldness and became very talkative. We sat down at a table and our beer was brought.
I doubt if any traveling man ever became a drunkard, because of the drinking necessary to be done among his customers. A little of it appears to be really necessary. But this little would lead no one to excess. The men who drink to excess are those who patronize bars with other traveling men, and who drink alone. The temptation is great. Every hotel has its bar; all introductions and intimacies have to be sealed with a drink, and the man who does not feel bright, or fancies he does not, has a row of bright bottles beckoning to him to “brace up” with a glass of their contents.
I do not wonder that the pulpits and all thoughtful people cry out against the drinking of liquor. Every traveling man's experience, the tales he could tell of the financial and moral ruin of men from drinking, and men who are usually the most intelligent and who ought to be the most influential, are all in the line of the injunction to taste not the accursed stuff. I say this after years of experience; I felt it on my first trip, but I was so anxious to ingratiate myself into the good graces of every man I wanted to sell to that I drank with customers when asked, and when it seemed wise invited them to indulge with me.
Do you say that the foolishness of this was that I must continue it each trip and do more each time? No, you are not correct. I had less occasion for it the next and each succeeding trip. I was able to meet the men on a different footing after the first trip, and I had but little use for liquor as an engine to help business.
A man must needs, too, be very cautious in inviting men to indulge. If it is done in any way so that it appears to be to help make sales it will do more harm than good. A certain class of traveling men will invite a merchant to go out and get a drink as if they were offering him a new paper collar, or to pay for his having his boots blacked. Their manner seems to say, “I must buy you a drink and then I'm going to stick you on an order.” They disgust where they expected to please.
Yet, as I have said before, men seem to come close together over a glass of beer. My friend had positively refused to buy a dollar's worth from me, and I had put him down as rather a surly fellow, but as we sat there over our beer he chatted about himself, his business, and his partner, as if we were old friends.
“I have been seventeen years in trade,” said he, “and we have been tolerably successful. I began with $1,500, and I suppose I am worth $35,000, but I work fourteen hours a day, and I have to carry all the responsibility on my shoulders. My partner waits on customers when he is in the store, but when he wants to go out driving or to go anywhere else, he goes. I never let him do anything but he makes a bull. He contracted for advertising the other day, $300 worth, in a paper that will never do us three cents' worth of good. We have the meanest kind of competition here; every wholesale house retails, too, and retails a good many goods at wholesale prices. They buy in larger quantities than we do, and of course can buy cheaper, and they look upon their retail profit as so much clear gain. I am tired of the business, and if I could sell out I would get into the jobbing trade.”
There it was. The man who wants to sell out is one of the most numerous men that exist. But it was my business then, and it has always been my business since, to listen sympathetically to all such tales, and to promise to have an eye out for any possible purchaser.
“We don't do much in your line,” he continued, “because men don't come to a stove store to buy revolvers, but if I don't sell out I'm going to do some wholesaling, and see if I can't eventually work up into wholesale exclusively.”
This was a much more promising opening for me, and I led his fancy over a bed of roses to the not distant day when he might put up that fraudulent sign—“No goods at retail.” And I was reminded of a very cheap pistol that we had that I would sell him at 52 cents, which he could job to any country dealer at 75 cents. I don't know if it was the beer or my eloquence, but I sold him fifty then and there, and added some other goods to the sale, so that my evening was not wholly wasted.
I saw him not long ago. He is still retailing at the old stand and still grumbling about his partner, but we have been the best of friends since our first evening together.
As I ate my breakfast the next morning I overheard two men at my table talk about trade, and I quietly listened.
“It only takes a little thing to help out a line of goods or to kill them,” said one. “Nimick & Brittan got out that burglar-proof attachment on their locks and just kept themselves going by it.”
“Is Brittan on the road now?”
“Guess not. The Big Three, Brittan, Rashgo, and Bond, work some kind of a syndicate, though, and make a good thing out of it. I met Brittan twenty years ago or so. He was a hard worker, good-natured, understood human nature and was a success. He represented several concerns, and used to make ten or twelve thousand clear a year. Finally he got into the lock factory.”
“Most traveling men are crazy to get into something.”
“Yes; that's so. We think if we had a shebang of our own we'd just make things fly; but we miss it oftener than we hit it when we do get the factory.”
“You're right. The man on the road with a good trade and a good salary has a pretty good thing of it.”
“Well, some men expect to strike it rich by silver stock. Do you know Al Bevins?”
“The sleigh-bell man? Yes, I know him well.”
“Has he told you about the silver stock?”
“No.”
“He has been investing in Deming's—”
“Oh, d—n Deming! He's a nuisance with his silver stock.”
“Yes, but he gets the boys in all the same. Henley has bought a lot in Providence on the strength of his investment, and Deacon Hall, of Wallingford, will buy out Wallace when his dividends come in. Bevins says it's better than sleigh-bells, and Al knows how to run a factory.”
“Still, some of the men at the factories are born idiots. You can't teach them anything. If the managers were compelled to make one trip a year they'd find out a good deal. Here's my ax trade. I've been cussed from one end of the trip to the other. My orders for October shipment were billed about January 1. And it's the same way year after year. I swear, I often wonder that I get any orders at all! They damn me in February, and yet they give me new orders in May. But it is sickening to hear the same story over and over, year after year.”
“What excuse do they offer at home?”
“Oh, it's never two years alike. One year the streams dry up; then the foreman is discharged; then they booked too many orders.”
“A little thing happened that riled me when I was last home. A customer ordered a certain spoon, using a special number of his own, on the 18th of May. I was in the shop late in June, and the shipping clerk asked me what spoon that was! Here he had held the order six weeks before he took steps to find out what the man wanted. I gave him a piece of my mind.”
“Talking of spoons, do you ever run across Kendrick, of Mix & Co.? I traveled with him a few years ago.”
“He sticks close to the factory. There is an instance where the traveling man took the management of the factory to good purpose. I don't believe there is a better-managed business anywhere. Kendrick has become a deacon in the church, with a weather eye out for fast horses.”
“Talking of spoons reminds me of Father Parmelee, of Wallingford. Do you know him?”
“Who, Sam? Yes, indeed.”
“We were in Detroit together, and the way Parmelee talked William Rogers was enough to drive a man crazy. He's just chock full of William Rogers, and I'll bet he'll want Rogers on his plated grave-stone.”
“Parmelee is one of the kindest-hearted men on the road. I never heard him say a bitter word against any one; I never knew him to bore any one; I never heard a merchant speak other than kindly of him. He travels for a big house, but they probably do not know how much of their business in the West is due to Parmelee's push and tact. He has been a long time traveling, and I always like to meet him.”
When the two men went away I ruminated over what they had said, and I laid up several points for my own use. I was especially glad to hear them praise other traveling men. It's a mighty good sign of any man to find him generous in his praise of others. I thought this all over as I started down the street to find Shull & Cox and try to sell them 100 bull-dogs. I caught their sign and marched boldly in, wishing there was a law on the books that would compel every dealer to give a salesman an order whether he needed goods or not.
A young clerk was at work near the door, so I asked if the buyer was in.
“That's him over there with that drummer.”
“Is it Mr. Shull or Mr. Cox?”
“That's Shull; Cox won't be here for an hour yet; he don't get up till the school bell rings.”
I saw the young man was talkative, so I prodded for more information. “Who is that drummer?”
“I don't know his name; he's selling revolvers from More & Less, of New York.”
This was fun for me, and I wished I was out of the way, and out of the town. I concluded that the best thing I could do would be to interview some one else immediately, and I started off at once.
I think a man often does better work when he is spurred on by anxiety. I had seen More & Less's man in the store across the street, so I determined I would do my best at Bingham's and not get whipped out of the town. Mr. Bingham met me as if he wished I was somewhere else, but I was too eager to sell to care very much about his manner. I told him my story as well as I could, and insisted that if he needed anything in my line I could do him good.
“I don't need anything,” said he, “but what is all this talk of the M. H. & Co. revolver?”
“It is coming into prominence,” I said, “and Jim Merwin gave it a big boom in Cleveland the other day. McIntosh took him before the Police Board, and they say Merwin outdid Buffalo Bill. McIntosh says the Chief of Police took a Smith & Wesson, and Merwin a M. H. & Co., and each tried to shoot the other with empty shells, Jim grabbed the Chief, emptied his revolver of the shells and rammed the pistol in his ear until the Chief yelled for mercy. Merwin gave such a war dance that they had to call out the fire department to cool him down. He secured the city's order for an outfit for the police, and M. H. & Co. stock has gone up since then.”
“Do you sell them?”
“Yes, at factory prices.”
“Pho! All you men talk factory prices.”
“I mean factory prices.”
“Well,” said he, “I'm going to buy of Simmons after this; he beats the factories. His New England man—”
“His what?”
“His New England man. Didn't you know he had opened a Boston office and now drums New England?”
“I hadn't heard of that.”
“Oh, yes. St. Louis is going to run the country on hardware hereafter and on guns. Simmons' New England man says they do a big business there; dealers buy bills of $8.87 down. Their New York office isn't open yet, but it's coming; they want Sam Haines as manager, or J. B. Sargent. They do things up big down there.”
“How many M. & H. revolvers can I send you?”
“Don't want any now; just asked out of curiosity.”
This was discouraging, but I opened my price-book at A, and called his attention to every item in it, but to everything received the same answer, “Got it.” I began to get desperate.
“Look here,” said Bingham, “you seem to be excited, young man. I like to see a man work, but if a fellow don't want anything, he don't, and that's the end of it. I never bought a dollar from your house, and your prices are no better than others.”
But I wanted an order. Whether he needed goods or not was no concern of mine; I wanted an order and I was determined to get one if such a thing were possible. Finally I struck Flobert rifles. “Look here,” I said, “I have a special price on Flobert's target rifles—$2.10 by the case—but I will give you a cut even on that; I will make them $2, and now I want you to give me an order.”
“Two dollars,” he said, as if turning it over in his mind; “$2, eh? I've a mind to go and see Madley with you.”
“Who is Madley?”
“He's a clothing man, and chain lightning about offering gifts to purchasers. He has run cows, watches, pianos, and lager beer; maybe he'd take hold of rifles.”
“Very well,” said I, “let's us go see him. What price shall I quote him?”
“You needn't do any quoting; I'll make prices and you expatiate on the goods.”
We started down the street to Madley's, and I was introduced to the gentleman, a fussy, garrulous little man with an extremely red face. Bingham opened the ball, and I never listened to more talented drumming than he did that morning.
“Chris,” said he, “this young man is offering target rifles at a cut price that knocks anything ever known. The boys have been buying them very freely of late, and they are popular. I fancied they might hit you as a gift with a boy's suit. If you can handle them I don't want any profit, but am getting other goods from him, and you can ship with my goods.”
“What are they worth?”
“Well, you have as much of an idea of the worth of a rifle as any one else has; suppose you were going to buy one for your boy, what would you expect to pay?”
“I don't know anything about them.”
“Oh, you've got some idea and I want to get it, for you will not be very different from the average man in your estimate of cost.”
“Oh, d—-n it, say $10; but I can't handle any such goods.”
“We don't ask you to at $10. But that is about the average idea regarding price. Now, Chris, this man's price is $3.12.”
It struck me this was getting mighty close to “cost!”
“Eh, $3.12! How the devil can they make it at that?”
“Oh, they make it. How they do it is none of our concern. It would make you a very popular gift and the boys would go wild over it.”
Madley turned to me. “Is that your bottom price?”
“I gave Mr. Bingham my very best figures.”
“How many have you got?”
“Any amount you want.”
He called two of his young men, and after a conference with them came up to Bingham and said: “Bingham, I can't afford to let you make a profit on these rifles. You wouldn't come up here if you were not making something. The idea is a good one, and you may send your boy up and get the best suit of clothes I've got, but I'm going to figure on rifles before I order.”
“All right, Chris, go in.” He turned on his heel to go out, and I followed. When we were on the sidewalk he said: “I don't give it up yet, but I can play bluff as well as he can.”
“You asked too much advance, I am afraid.”
“Oh, I know him. I'll go for him by and by.”
And he did. I called in the afternoon and took his order for 100 rifles, and he showed me a written order for them from Madley at $2.62. To these he added several other items, making a very nice bill. I have always noticed that, however much a man did not want any goods, the moment you get him started there is but little difficulty in then getting his order for some of the very things he told you he was not needing.
During this time I had no fear of the other salesman. My prices were down so low I cared for no one, but I concluded I would go back to Mr. Shull's, and see if anything was left for me there. He happened to be at work at the shelves, which is a place I like to find a man at, and I explained that I was in early in the day but saw he was engaged.
“Yes,” said he, “I had a gun man here all forenoon. He sold me all I needed in your line. He says bull-dogs are going up.”
“I had not heard of it.”
“What are you selling at?”
What should I say? If he had bought I didn't care to quote a special price, and I did not want to name a high price, for that might give him a bad impression of the house in the future.
It is a difficult place in which a salesman finds himself, this quoting prices to a man who has just bought. The temptation is always to name a very low rate, perhaps even to go below your lowest selling price, for the purpose of making the man feel that you would have been a better man to buy from, but this is a two-edged sword, and I have not cared to handle it. I concluded it would pay here to be frank.
“It is possible there is some advance of which I don't know,” I said, “but my price has been $2.75 to $2.85, according to quantity.”
“That's what I bought at.”
I opened up on rifles, found him entirely out, and showed him my order from Bingham for 100.
“What in Sam Hill is he going to do with 100?”
I did not enlighten him. I said: “Oh, every lad buys a target rifle nowadays.”
“What price do you get?”
“Two dollars and ten cents by the case.”
“Case? How many's a case?”
“Thirty-six.”
“I don't want any case. If you want to send me a dozen at that you may.”
I wanted to, and got his order for another item or two, and left him, feeling I had done pretty well.
This showing one merchant the order you have taken from his neighbor is one of the easiest things in the world to do, but it is not always a trump card. Still, it has a powerful influence in a majority of cases. The best buyer who lives has times of doubting if his judgment is infallible, and he is glad to brace it up by comparing with the judgment of others. This he is able to do through having salesmen tell of the orders given by other buyers, and be he never so smart, he very often falls into their traps.
If you are a buyer you are, possibly, looking at a Russell knife, listening to Booth's eloquent description of the way they are hand forged, elegantly ground, and how Oakman inspects every blade and then wraps it up carefully in Ella Wheeler Wilcox's last poem. The pattern you have in your hand pleases you, but you wonder how others will look at it. The question is not, “Do I like it?” but, “Will it sell?” You are inclined to think it will, but just then your eye falls on scores of patterns on your shelves that you thought would go like hot cakes, but they have disappointed you. Perhaps, after all, your best way is to wait; but just then Booth opens his little book and shows you where Bartlett ordered 100 gross; Buhl, 50 gross; Ducharme, 25 gross, and Blossom, 10 gross (but he puts his thumb over this last hastily), and you tell him to send you a few. As I said before, I believe the best buyer is more or less influenced by being told what others are doing, and with the smaller trade it is constantly used to sway their decision.
Is it right?
I do not know. I am not writing of the ethics of business. I know that traveling men use the order taken from one buyer to influence another, and that it often has great influence, although I think the buyer is not wise who acts upon such information. Even when he is told the strict truth regarding the orders given by others, he ought to know his own stock and trade so well that he could depend upon his own judgment. But most of us like to lean on some one else, and when we are hesitating and learn that our competitors have decided thus and so, it is easy to fall into line and buy as they did.
Sitting at the breakfast table of the hotel next morning a gentleman opposite looked up pleasantly and asked:
“Are you selling goods, sir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What line?”
“Guns and sporting goods.”
“Yes? I'm a little in that line myself.” And he handed me his card.
HOPSBY, COCKLEY & CO.,20 Warren Street,New York City.
“My name is Cockley,” he added.
I had heard of him often, and was very glad to meet him, though I would have been still happier if he were not selling the Norwich revolvers. I always had a feeling that I stood a poor show when I was in direct competition with other salesmen in my line, and I never felt quite comfortable with them.
“How is trade?” I asked.
“Well, rather dull on the road; but they write me it is booming at home. We have a large South American trade that the elder Mr. Hopsby, being a fluent Spanish scholar, and author of that well-known work, 'Spanish As She Is Walked,' looks after, while young Mr. Hopsby looks after his father and me, and it keeps him busy.”
“You have a good many lines beside pistols?” I asked.
“Oh, yes; pistols are a side issue. I sold Deming 1,237 Waterbury watches, and Blossom a car-load of can-openers. I sell Pribyl here a ton of nail-pullers at a time. Did you ever see the Waterbury watch?”
“I have not seen it lately.”
“Then take these two; no, put them both in your pockets; I always give a man two, so he can check off one by the other. A Waterbury watch is one of the greatest blessings in the world. Babies can drop them; boys can throw them at each other, and women can use them as stocking-darners. Mr. Hopsby drops one into the contribution box every Sunday, and expects, in the course of a few years, to provide every young African with a time piece.”
I didn't get it quite clear in my mind whether Cockley was guying me or not, but he looked as if he were simply trying to be sociable.
“Have you been long on the road?” he asked.
“No; this is my first trip.”
“That so? You look quite at home. I remember my first trip; it was in New England, and I was selling sewing-machine needles. Mr. Hopsby took me around a corner before I started and, presenting me with a nail-puller, told me he was afraid he was doing wrong to send me out, I was so young; but that I was to remember that the only way to prosperity was in getting orders. It hadn't struck me in just that light before, but the more I thought it over the more I believed he was right. The first man I tackled was a pious-looking deacon, and I began to whistle 'The Ninety and Nine' as I went toward him, so that he might understand that I was a Bible class scholar. I worked over that brother for two mortal hours, and finally got mad. 'If you only played billiards,' said I, 'I'd lick you like thunder.' 'You can't do it,' said he, and in less than ten minutes we were at the table across the street. I was just more than walloping him, when suddenly I remembered the tearful injunctions of Mr. Hopsby. I let him beat me three games, and then sold him $60 worth of needles.”
“You have been on the road a long time?”
“Twenty-two years come Valentine's day.”
I looked incredulous.
“Oh, I began young. Chris. Morgan, George Bartlett, Sam Parmelee, Charley Healey, and I started on the same day. We now leave New York Saturday night, give Cleveland, Monday; Toledo and Detroit, Tuesday; Fort Wayne and Indianapolis, Wednesday; Chicago, Thursday; St. Louis, Friday; Cincinnati, Saturday; and are in New York for business the next Monday morning.”
“That is fast traveling.”
“Yes, but we have the trade educated up to it. We tell them 'no bouquets,' 'no parties,' but just orders. We telegraphed ahead to Toledo, the other day, so that while the train waited twenty minutes for dinner I sold three bills.”
The was all said so honestly and so pleasantly that I had to believe he was sincere, but at the same time I knew it wasn't strictly correct, and I felt more and more uncomfortable.
“How do you like this hotel?”
“Pretty well; I'm not very particular.”
“You will be when you have been ten or fifteen years on the road. Hotels are a large part of your life. I left word at the Julian House, in Dubuque, to be called at six o'clock, the other night, and about four I heard some one pounding away, so I asked what was up. The musical voice of the watchmen came back: 'It's now 4 o'clock, and I'm going off watch, so yees has two hours yet to sleep before 6 o'clock.' Now that struck me as a family arrangement, and I'm going to have it extended to other houses.”
“There's something about hotels I don't like,” I said.
“What's that? The whisky? It is poor here, but you will find it better farther West.”
“No,” I said, “I'm not much interested in the whisky. What I dislike about hotels is the loneliness.”
“Yes, that's so. For that reason I like to travel with a party. I get Brother Little, he sells Pillsbury flour, and is a first-rate player on the harmonica, and Al Bevins (the talented sleigh-bell artist), who plays on a $2 music box, while I play on a double police whistle equal to any man in America. We take possession of the parlor and invite the landlord's family in, and, I tell you, we make it home-like! How would you like to try a little concert here to-night?”
I begged off most emphatically, and said I must go for business. “Hold on, we'll go together. Do you know any one here?”
I confessed that I did not.
“Neither do I; so we can be of great help to each other. I'll introduce you, and then you can introduce me.”
I felt as if I stood a good chance of getting into some kind of a scrape before I got away from him; but off we started. We were going down the street when Cockley struck an attitude and pointed to a sign over the way:
“I told you I knew no one; I was joking. There's a friend's. Let's go over and see Bewell. He'll be glad to see us and give us the whole town. He was in New York this spring, and we had a good time together studying up art. After he had once seen the game piece in Stewart's it was impossible to keep him away from it. I never saw men so devoted to aesthetics as he and Joe Gildersleeve were. He said the best way to see the picture was through a glass of rum and molasses, and he looked at it in that light about thirteen times a day.”
I followed him in with some fear of a joke being played on me, but his manner changed at the door, and we met Bewell as if we were all deacons. He gave Cockley a very warm reception, as if thoroughly glad to see him. I concluded I was in the way, so with a promise to call later, I betook myself to another house. I did not meet Cockley again for many months.
I thought him over when I had time, and was not surprised that I had always heard him spoken of as being a very successful salesman. The half-hour that we were together had made me like him, and the way that he went into Bewell's store showed me that he knew when to be dignified as well as when to be jolly. I especially liked the way in which he spoke of his partners; in my way of thinking this is one of the signs of a broad man. The small, petty-minded fellows are sure to have a complaint to make of their house or buyers or partners. In following Cockley's steps since I have always heard him pleasantly spoken of by merchants and travelers.
I found the store, to which I took my way, a large wholesale hardware house. I observed as I entered that one man was very angry about something, while he talked to another whom I took to be his traveling man. I did not care to bother him until he was through, so nodded a good morning and took a chair. I soon found the man was angry over allowances the traveler had made in the previous week, and I was much interested and strongly in sympathy with him.
“What did Labar say about the goods he returned?” he asked, as his eye caught that name in the list in his hand.
“He claimed that he ordered dish-pans and that we sent rinsing-pans, and that the brushes were moth eaten.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said as little as I could.”
“I wish you had told him that he was a contemptible cur. A man who will lie over $4.80 worth of goods, after keeping them in his hands ninety days, and seeing you twice meantime without saying a word, is a mighty small man. He knew from the price what the pans would be, but he never thought of any such excuse until after we drew on him for his long overdue bill. Of course our kicking does no good, because other houses will sell him until they have similar experiences with him, and it will take a good while to go around. If I was as mean as some of these whelps I'd shoot myself. Did Simpson pay up?”
“He paid the balance of the bill, but would not pay interest; said that we were the only house that charged interest, and he should never buy of us again.”
“The miserable little liar! I don't suppose a house is in existence that lets a bill run five months after due and does not add interest. When are you going out?”
“On the next train.”
“Well, try and collect the balance due from Stone, but don't sell him another dollar; there are decent men enough in the trade, let the mean ones go. If he does not pay, get the name of a reliable justice and we will send a sworn account to him. But don't sell him again.”
“They're good as wheat.”
“I know they are good in the sense of being responsible; mean men usually are; but it is not a question of their responsibility; they are tricky and untruthful, and their idea of being smart is to lie over goods and prices and compel a deduction. Give them the go-by. Well, good-by; don't worry over trade; do your best and we will be satisfied.”
As his man started off he turned to me with, “Well, young man, you look as if you wanted to sell me something.”
When a merchant says to the traveler, “Young man, you want to sell me something?” it is a notice to come at once to the point and state your business. It is not the way we like to proceed. We prefer to pass the compliments of the day, talk about business, and approach gradually the special branch of trade to which we are devoted. But Mr. Clark's “Well, young man,” was like a whip, and I had to at once open out with my little story.
“We don't want anything in that line,” said he, with decision. “We are full of guns and ammunition. It's a beastly business. I wish I was out of it. Here is a card quoting Pieper's 'Diana' gun at $32; mine cost me $38; now, how the d—-l does this concern sell at $32?”
The “Diana” gun was well known to the trade as one having all the modern improvements; the rubber butt-piece had Diana's head on it and hence the name; but Pieper sent over one lot of about two hundred guns of the common quality, and this “Diana” butt-piece was on them; they were sold by Pieper's agent to a gun house as common guns, at about $28, but this house promptly sent out its daily postal card quoting the “Diana gun” at $32. This was the story as told to our house, and I explained it to Mr. Clark.
“That may be just as you say,” said he, “but a business that is full of that kind of tricks is a good one to get out of.”
Just then a clerk came in and handed him a slip of paper, which I recognized as a special report from the mercantile agency. He excused himself while he read it. “This beats the Turks,” said he to me. “I never knew a time when it was so difficult to get reports of the standing of retail dealers that you could tie to. My man sends in an order from J. C. K., Burlington, and he says: 'This man has a nice stock of goods and his neighbors say he is worth $5,000, and is good for anything he buys.' Dun does not quote him at all, so I asked for special report, and here it is:
J. C. K., Burlington, has been in business here since 1880; came fromKokomo, where he failed and paid 40 cents on the dollar; is married,age about 42, habits good. Claims to have stock of $2,200, and to owenot to exceed $600. Is doing fair business, but his personal expensesare rather high, and it is said he is close run for ready means.Thought safe for small amounts, but bill should not be allowed tolapse.
“Now this and my salesman's report don't tally very closely. Here is another case. My man sells John Johnes, of Dubuque, and writes: 'He has a grocery well stocked; says stock is worth $3,000, and no debts. His neighbors say he is sound as wheat.' But when Dun's report comes in it says:
Is a married man. Been in business alone and with partners forseveral years; means limited and estimated worth $500 to $800. Isregarded as an honest man, and it is believed he will do for alimited line.
“Now I don't like an honest man who is worth $500 to $800, according to Dun, but who tells my man he is worth $3,000.”
“You can usually depend on Dun, can't you?”
“Yes, I think they sin on the right side; they are apt to make a man out as bad as they can. Here is one of their reports, as an instance:
F. Keef, saloon and grocery. He appears to be doing a good business;is in debt, but to what extent are not able to say. Had some claimsagainst him here, but think he will pay. Has some energy and push inbusiness. Has no real estate so far as known, and not consideredsound financially.
“You would not care to sell a man on such a report, would you? Yet that man is one of the best paying men on our books.”
“Do not your salesmen call on the banks?”
“Yes, I suppose they do, but let me tell you that banks are the biggest liars in existence. They often say a man is good when they know exactly to the contrary. My man sent in an order from L. Loeby, of LaGro, Kentucky; he wrote, 'Loeby is a sharp buyer, and said to be good. I called at the bank and they said he was A No. 1, and good for anything he buys.' Well, I got a report from Dun, and here it is:
L. Loeby, LaGro; age 35; married; been in business two years; fairlytemperate and fairly attentive to business; character and businesscapacity moderate; it is said doubtful as to honesty; means inbusiness, about $1,000; no real estate; on the $1,000 above listed ashis means in business the bank here holds a chattel mortgage of $600;he has a large family, and of late he has not been paying his billsas they fall due.
“You can see why the bank quotes him A No. 1. The more goods he gets the better is the value of their chattel mortgage. I have stopped putting much faith in what banks say about men.”
“Are not the mercantile agencies almost always sure to find something against a man or a firm?”
“No, sir; they have to give facts as near as they can get at them, and if there is nothing against a man they can not give anything against him. Take this report:
Darby & Chase, groceries and commission, Delphi. E. J. Darby and W.H. Chase compose the firm; seem to be men of good character andbusiness capacity. They are thought to be worth $10,000 to $15,000.
“That report probably gives the best general opinion in that community regarding that firm. Their character and business capacity are good, and they are prospering, evidently. But the mercantile agencies omit to tell us some very important points about men. A man may be financially all right, and yet be an undesirable customer, or one who ought to be handled with great care. Every report ought to tell whether the man is a smart Aleck or not; if he is mean about returning goods; if he makes unfair claims; if he is a chronic reporter of shortages; if he allows bills to run long past due and then refuses to pay interest, or exchange on drafts; all these points ought to be covered.”
“Are you much bothered by such men?”
“Every wholesale house is; no matter what line it is in, or who it is, the wholesale dealer has more or less of just such men to deal with. I know a retailer who invariably reports a shortage; he lies, of course, but he is fool enough to think he is making money because he beats every house out of a dollar or two every time he pays a bill. Here is a man whose bill was due November 30; I draw on him by express (his town has no bank) February 23, and add 25 cents to the draft to cover the cost of getting the money to me. I make no claim for interest although I have as good a legal claim for it as for the principal, but he refuses to pay my draft, and in a few days sends me his check on a country bank for the face of the bill. It cost me 25 cents to collect his check, and I paid 25 cents to the express company on the returned draft, so I get 50 cents less than my bill and lose the use of my money nearly three months after it was due me.”
“Why didn't you draw through the nearest bank the day the bill was due?”
“I didn't want to be so sharp with him; I felt kindly toward him, and supposed a little leniency would be appreciated, so I only sent a statement asking for remittance. And this is the way he repays me!”
“Probably you gave him a piece of your mind.”
“What good does it do? The drummer from my competitor will call on him, and if the dealer starts to run me down he will help him at it. We put up with things of this kind until the average retailer fancies he is real smart, and the meaner he is the smarter he will be considered.”
“But isn't it your experience that shippers do make mistakes, and occasional overcharges are made?”
“Certainly it is; not very frequently, but occasionally such things happen to us. But I don't write the factories as if they were pickpockets, and as if these errors were intentional. In thirty years' experience I never knew a house refuse to correct an error, and while I want all my discounts and extras to which I am entitled, I don't want one cent more than that. If I do not pay bills when due I expect to be drawn on, and have to pay the cost of the draft. If interest is demanded I pay it, and if it is not demanded I feel grateful to the house for letting me off.”
“I think gunsmiths a mighty touchy set of men to deal with.”
“They're no better and no worse than any one else. My neighbor told me last night that he had just received notice from an Iowa customer that he would not take a bill of dry goods, just sent him, out of the depot because they were charged one-half cent too much. He claimed the bill was one-half cent a yard on everything higher than the price agreed upon between himself and the salesman. The house is one of the most reputable in the State; the salesman is one of fifteen years' experience, and the prices are the same as he made to others in that town and all along the route. He says the retailer kept no copy of the order and goes entirely by guess. He does not write to ask the house if there is a mistake or not, but shows his smartness by announcing that he shall refuse to receive the goods.”
“What will they do with him?”
“Keen said the man owed them $700 on a past due note that they were carrying at his request; he said they would compel him to pay it up clean at once, and never go near him again. I hope it will bother him right bad to raise the money.”
I apologized for having taken up so much of his time, but said I would be sorry to go away and not have a small order to show for it. I called his attention to Flobert rifles, interested him in them, and finally secured his order for a case. As we were finishing our talk a happy-looking pair came in the door, and I took up the morning paper while Mr. Clark went forward and greeted one of them, a Mr. Healey, very cordially, as if he were a very old friend, and then Healey, his eyes twinkling, said:
“Mr. Clark, let me introduce my friend, Mr. Fuller. He is known far and near as 'And Forged Fuller, and he is also the owner and patentee of that celebrated washing compound, Fuller's Earth.”
Clark laughed heartily as he shook hands with Fuller, who said:
“I may say that my trade mark is 'Paragon;' heverybody hasks for it—”
“Yes,” broke in Healey, “and nobody buys it!”
“I may say,” said Fuller, placidly, “that Mr. Healey is wrong; I frequently sell a few. It's my trade mark, and known, I may say, in England as well as here.”
“Yes,” said Healey, “Fuller lives on both continents, and brings the steel over in his grip. We have our examples at the hotel and shall be glad to have you come up there. Fuller don't care whether he sells or not; he is rich and traveling only to keep down his flesh.”
Mr. Clark made an engagement with them and they went away. As they passed out he said: “There goes one of the most genial-hearted men on the road. I have known Charley Healey for about twenty years. He came out here representing Hilger & Son, and built up a good trade for that firm. Hilger could not have done it in a thousand years. Then that firm and Wiebusch consolidated, and Healey looked after their Western business. I never met a buyer who was not his friend, and I imagine most of them are, like myself, heavily in his debt for courtesies extended to us, not by way of business, but as if he were under obligations to us. I say to you that a good many houses never suspect the debt they are under to their traveling men, but look upon themselves as the great magnet that draws trade, when nine out of ten dealers care nothing whatever about the principals and buy entirely out of regard for the salesman.”
I had heard many men speak in the same terms of Healey before, and I hoped I should meet him at dinner.
As I bade good-by to Mr. Clark and thanked him for the order given me, he said: “Somehow you do not seem like a stranger.”
I thanked him for that compliment most sincerely.