Further Foolishness

Ch. 9 - More than Twice-told Tales

Or, Every Man his Own Hero

(I)

The familiar story told about himself by the Commercial

Traveller who sold goods to the man who was regarded as

impossible.

"What," they said, "you're getting off at Midgeville?

You're going to give the Jones Hardware Company a try,

eh?"--and then they all started laughing and giving me

the merry ha! ha! Well, I just got my grip packed and

didn't say a thing and when the train slowed up for

Midgeville, out I slid. "Give my love to old man Jones,"

one of the boys called after me, "and get yourself a

couple of porous plasters and a pair of splints before

you tackle him!"--and then they all gave me the ha! ha!

again, out of the window as the train pulled out.

Well, I walked uptown from the station to the Jones

Hardware Company. "Is Mr. Jones in the office?" I asked

of one of the young fellers behind the counter. "He's in

the office," he says, "all right, but I guess you can't

see him," he says--and he looked at my grip. "What name

shall I say?" says he. "Don't say any name at all," I

says. "Just open the door and let me in."

Well, there was old man Jones sitting scowling over his

desk, biting his pen in that way he has. He looked up

when I came in. "See here, young man," he says, "you

can't sell me any hardware," he says. "Mr. Jones," I

says, "I don't _want_ to sell you any hardware. I'm not

_here_ to sell you any hardware. I know," I says, "as

well as you do," I says, "that I couldn't sell any hardware

if I tried to. But," I says, "I guess it don't do any

harm to open up this sample case, and show you some

hardware," I says. "Young man," says he, "if you start

opening up that sample case in here, you'll lose your

time, that's all"--and he turned off sort of sideways

and began looking over some letters.

"That's _all right_, Mr. Jones," I says. "That's _all

right_. I'm _here_ to lose my time. But I'm not going

out of this room till you take a look anyway at some of

this new cutlery I'm carrying."

So open I throws my sample case right across the end of

his desk. "Look at that knife," I says, "Mr. Jones. Just

look at it: clear Sheffield at three-thirty the dozen

and they're a knife that will last till you wear the haft

off it." "Oh, pshaw," he growled, "I don't want no knives;

there's nothing in knives--"

Well I _knew_ he didn't want knives, see? I _knew_ it.

But the way I opened up the sample case it showed up,

just by accident so to speak, a box of those new electric

burners--adjustable, you know--they'll take heat off any

size of socket you like and use it for any mortal thing

in the house. I saw old Jones had his eyes on them in a

minute. "What's those things you got there?" he growls,

"those in the box?" "Oh," I said, "that's just a new

line," I said, "the boss wanted me to take along: some

sort of electric rig for heating," I said, "but I don't

think there's anything to it. But here, now, Mr. Jones,

is a spoon I've got on this trip--it's the new Delphide

--you can't tell that, sir, from silver. No, sir," I

says, "I defy any man, money down, to tell that there

Delphide from genuine refined silver, and they're a spoon

that'll last--"

"Let me see one of those burners," says old man Jones,

breaking in.

Well, sir, in about two minutes more, I had one of the

burners fixed on to the light socket, and old Jones, with

his coat off, boiling water in a tin cup (out of the

store) and timing it with his watch.

The next day I pulled into Toledo and went and joined

the other boys up to the Jefferson House. "Well," they

says, "have you got that plaster on?" and started in to

give me the ha! ha! again. "Oh, I don't know," I says.

"I guess _this_ is some plaster, isn't it?" and I took

out of my pocket an order from old man Jones for two

thousand adjustable burners, at four-twenty with two off.

"Some plaster, eh?" I says.

Well, sir, the boys looked sick.

Old man Jones gets all his stuff from our house now. Oh,

he ain't bad at all when you get to know him.

(II)

The well-known story told by the man who has once had a

strange psychic experience.

...What you say about presentiments reminds me of a strange

experience that I had myself.

I was sitting by myself one night very late, reading. I

don't remember just what it was that I was reading. I

think it was--or no, I don't remember _what_ it was.

Well, anyway, I was sitting up late reading quietly till

it got pretty late on in the night. I don't remember

just how late it was--half-past two, I think, or perhaps

three--or, no, I don't remember. But, anyway, I was

sitting up by myself very late reading. As I say, it was

late, and, after all the noises in the street had stopped,

the house somehow seemed to get awfully still and quiet.

Well, all of a sudden I became aware of a sort of strange

feeling--I hardly know how to describe it--I seemed to

become aware of something, as if something were near me.

I put down my book and looked around, but could see

nothing. I started to read again, but I hadn't read more

than a page, or say a page and a half--or no, not more

than a page, when again all of a sudden I felt an

overwhelming sense of--something. I can't explain just

what the feeling was, but a queer sense as if there was

something somewhere.

Well, I'm not of a timorous disposition naturally--at

least I don't think I am--but absolutely I felt as if I

couldn't stay in the room. I got up out of my chair and

walked down the stairs, in the dark, to the dining-room.

I felt all the way as if some one were following me. Do

you know, I was absolutely trembling when I got into the

dining-room and got the lights turned on. I walked over

to the sideboard and poured myself out a drink of whisky

and soda. As you know, I never take anything as a rule

--or, at any rate, only when I am sitting round talking

as we are now--but I always like to keep a decanter of

whisky in the house, and a little soda, in case of my

wife or one of the children being taken ill in the night.

Well, I took a drink and then I said to myself, I said,

"See here, I'm going to see this thing through." So I

turned back and walked straight upstairs again to my

room. I fully expected something queer was going to happen

and was prepared for it. But do you know when I walked

into the room again the feeling, or presentiment, or

whatever it was I had had, was absolutely gone. There

was my book lying just where I had left it and the reading

lamp still burning on the table, just as it had been,

and my chair just where I had pushed it back. But I felt

nothing, absolutely nothing. I sat and waited awhile,

but I still felt _nothing_.

I went downstairs again to put out the lights in the

dining-room. I noticed as I passed the sideboard that

I was still shaking a little. So I took a small drink of

whisky--though as a rule I never care to take more than

one drink--unless when I am sitting talking as we are

here.

Well, I had hardly taken it when I felt an odd sort of

psychic feeling--a sort of drowsiness. I remember, in a

dim way, going to bed, and then I remember nothing till

I woke up next morning.

And here's the strange part of it. I had hardly got down

to the office after breakfast when I got a wire to tell

me that my mother-in-law had broken her arm in Cincinnati.

Strange, wasn't it? No, _not_ at half-past two during

that night--that's the inexplicable part of it. She had

broken it at half-past eleven the morning before. But

you notice it was _half-past_ in each case. That's the

queer way these things go.

Of course, I don't pretend to _explain it_. I suppose it

simply means that I am telepathic--that's all. I imagine

that, if I wanted to, I could talk with the dead and all

that kind of thing. But I feel somehow that I don't want

to.

Eh? Thank you, I will--though I seldom take more than--

thanks, thanks, that's plenty of soda in it.

(III)

The familiar narrative in which the Successful Business

Man recounts the early struggles by which he made good.

...No, sir, I had no early advantages whatever. I was brought

up plain and hard--try one of these cigars; they cost me

fifty cents each. In fact, I practically had no schooling

at all. When I left school I didn't know how to read,

not to read good. It's only since I've been in business

that I've learned to write English, that is so as to use

it right. But I'll guarantee to say there isn't a man in

the shoe business to-day can write a better letter than

I can. But all that I know is what I've learned myself.

Why, I can't do fractions even now. I don't see that a

man need. And I never learned no geography, except what

I got for myself off railroad folders. I don't believe

a man _needs_ more than that anyway. I've got my boy at

Harvard now. His mother was set on it. But I don't see

that he learns anything, or nothing that will help him

any in business. They say they learn them character and

manners in the colleges, but, as I see it, a man can get

all that just as well in business--is that wine all right?

If not, tell me and I'll give the head waiter hell; they

charge enough for it; what you're drinking costs me

four-fifty a bottle.

But I was starting to tell you about my early start in

business. I had it good and hard all right. Why when I

struck New York--I was sixteen then--I had just eighty

cents to my name. I lived on it for nearly a week while

I was walking round hunting for a job. I used to get soup

for three cents, and roast beef with potatoes, all you

could eat, for eight cents, that tasted better than anything

I can ever get in this damn club. It was down somewhere

on Sixth Avenue, but I've forgotten the way to it.

Well, about the sixth day I got a job, down in a shoe

factory, working on a machine. I guess you've never seen

shoe-machinery, have you? No, you wouldn't likely. It's

complicated. Even in those days there were thirty-five

machines went to the making of a shoe, and now we use as

many as fifty-four. I'd never seen the machines before,

but the foreman took me on. "You look strong," he said

"I'll give you a try anyway."

So I started in. I didn't know anything. But I made good

from the first day. I got four a week at the start, and

after two months I got a raise to four-twenty-five.

Well, after I'd worked there about three months, I went

up to the floor manager of the flat I worked on, and I

said, "Say, Mr. Jones, do you want to save ten dollars

a week on expenses?" "How?" says he. "Why," I said, "that

foreman I'm working under on the machine, I've watched

him, and I can do his job; dismiss him and I'll take over

his work at half what you pay him." "Can you do the work?"

he says. "Try me out," I said. "Fire him and give me a

chance." "Well," he said, "I like your spirit anyway;

you've got the right sort of stuff in you."

So he fired the foreman and I took over the job and held

it down. It was hard at first, but I worked twelve hours

a day, and studied up a book on factory machinery at

night. Well, after I'd been on that work for about a

year, I went in one day to the general manager downstairs,

and I said, "Mr. Thompson, do you want to save about a

hundred dollars a month on your overhead costs?" "How

can I do that?" says he. "Sit down." "Why," I said, "you

dismiss Mr. Jones and give me his place as manager of

the floor, and I'll undertake to do his work, and mine

with it, at a hundred less than you're paying now." He

turned and went into the inner office, and I could hear

him talking to Mr. Evans, the managing director. "The

young fellow certainly has character," I heard him say.

Then he came out and he said, "Well, we're going to give

you a try anyway: we like to help out our employes all

we can, you know; and you've got the sort of stuff in

you that we're looking for."

So they dismissed Jones next day and I took over his job

and did it easy. It was nothing anyway. The higher up

you get in business, the easier it is if you know how.

I held that job two years, and I saved all my salary

except twenty-five dollars a month, and I lived on that.

I never spent any money anyway. I went once to see Irving

do this Macbeth for twenty-five cents, and once I went

to a concert and saw a man play the violin for fifteen

cents in the gallery. But I don't believe you get much

out of the theatre anyway; as I see it, there's nothing

to it.

Well, after a while I went one day to Mr. Evans's office

and I said, "Mr. Evans, I want you to dismiss Mr. Thompson,

the general manager." "Why, what's he done?" he says.

"Nothing," I said, "but I can take over his job on top

of mine and you can pay me the salary you give him and

save what you're paying me now." "Sounds good to me," he

says.

So they let Thompson go and I took his place. That, of

course, is where I got my real start, because, you see,

I could control the output and run the costs up and down

just where I liked. I suppose you don't know anything

about costs and all that--they don't teach that sort of

thing in colleges--but even you would understand something

about dividends and would see that an energetic man with

lots of character and business in him, If he's general

manager can just do what he likes with the costs, especially

the overhead, and the shareholders have just got to take

what he gives them and be glad to. You see they can't

fire him--not when he's got it all in his own hands--for

fear it will all go to pieces.

Why would I want to run it that way for? Well, I'll tell

you. I had a notion by that time that the business was

getting so big that Mr. Evans, the managing director,

and most of the board had pretty well lost track of the

details and didn't understand it. There's an awful lot,

you know, in the shoe business. It's not like ordinary

things. It's complicated. And so I'd got an idea that I

would shove them clean out of it--or most of them.

So I went one night to see the president, old Guggenbaum,

up at his residence. He didn't only have this business,

but he was in a lot of other things as well, and he was

a mighty hard man to see. He wouldn't let any man see

him unless he knew first what he was going to say. But

I went up to his residence at night, and I saw him there.

I talked first with his daughter, and I said I just had

to see him. I said it so she didn't dare refuse. There's

a way in talking to women that they won't say no.

So I showed Mr. Guggenbaum what I could do with the stock.

"I can put that dividend," I says, "clean down to zero--and

they'll none of them know why. You can buy the lot of

them out at your own price, and after that I'll put the

dividend back to fifteen, or twenty, in two years."

"And where do _you_ come in?" says the old man, with a

sort of hard look. He had a fine business head, the old

man, at least in those days.

So I explained to him where I came in. "All right," he

said. "Go ahead. But I'll put nothing in writing." "Mr.

Guggenbaum, you don't need to," I said. "You're as fair

and square as I am and that's enough for me."

His daughter let me out of the house door when I went.

I guess she'd been pretty scared that she'd done wrong

about letting me in. But I said to her it was all right,

and after that when I wanted to see the old man I'd always

ask for her and she'd see that I got in all right.

Got them squeezed out? Oh, yes, easy. There wasn't any

trouble about that. You see the old man worked up a sort

of jolt in wholesale leather on one side, and I fixed up

a strike of the hands on the other. We passed the dividend

two quarters running, and within a year we had them all

scared out and the bulk of the little shareholders, of

course, trooped out after them. They always do. The old

man picked up the stock when they dropped it, and one-half

of it he handed over to me.

That's what put me where I am now, do you see, with the

whole control of the industry in two states and more than

that now, because we have the Amalgamated Tanneries in

with us, so it's practically all one concern.

Guggenbaum? Did I squeeze him out? No, I didn't because,

you see, I didn't have to. The way it was--well, I tell

you--I used to go up to the house, see, to arrange things

with him--and the way it was--why, you see, I married

his daughter, see, so I didn't exactly _need_ to squeeze

him out. He lives up with us now, but he's pretty old

and past business. In fact, I do it all for him now, and

pretty well everything he has is signed over to my wife.

She has no head for it, and she's sort of timid anyway

--always was--so I manage it all. Of course, if anything

happens to the old man, then we get it all. I don't think

he'll last long. I notice him each day, how weak he's

getting.

My son in the business? Well, I'd like him to be. But he

don't seem to take to it somehow--I'm afraid he takes

more after his mother; or else it's the college that's

doing it. Somehow, I don't think the colleges bring out

business character, do you?