Letters From an Old Time Salesman to His Son

Dear Hal:

Your last letter made me happier than I can begin to tell you. In it you related some of your problems and really asked advice. I was beginning to think you are getting “fed up” on my unsolicited counsel but feel complimented to know you now want more of it.

But, leaving the personal side out of it, you know, Red, the smart man is the one who collects ideas from every one he meets, separates the wheat from the chaff and then capitalizes them, and it’s a sincere pleasure for me to know that you’ve at last arrived at the age when you are big enough to admit that when brains were passed around you didn’t get all of ’em.

So you’re wondering what’s the matter with your salesmen, eh? They don’t seem to take things seriously and worry whether they get business or not—always looking forward to pay-day and that’s all—eh, what? All right—your description of their attitude is so good that I believe I know just where the trouble is.

I suppose you were too young at the time to get the lesson, but, Red, your case reminds me of something that used to happen regularly when you were a little boy. Do you remember years ago when you used to have that brindle pup? He wasn’t much to look at—had no pedigree, or anything, but was just plain dog—the kind whose only excuse for living was that he was a playmate of a freckle-faced, red-headed boy. Well, anyway, the little girl next door had a cat for a pet, if you’ll remember. Similarly to the dog, the cat hadn’t taken any blue ribbons and about the only thing she did worth mentioning now, at least, was to notify the family that claimed her, ever so often, that she was the proud mother of a mess, and I say it advisedly, Red, a mess of kittens.

But the Boss of the house didn’t appreciate her being so prolific—not being as interested in cat farms as our old friend Charlie Emery. So ever so often, while you and the neighbor girl were out to a toddle party, her father and myself would sneak down in their basement, ostensibly to look over the last sad remnants of his private stock (which is speaking in an unknown tongue to you now), but primarily to increase the mortality list of the cat specie by holding each kitten in the bottom of a pail of water until eight of their proverbial nine lives had taken flight for cat heaven.

Now, Spud, your pup and Puss, the mother cat, were never what you might call affinities. Even though the two families with whom they were living were always close friends, the same measure of respect and esteem was not shared by Spud and Puss. As a result, every time Spud would spy Puss in the backyard he’d let out a mongrel yelp and start for her with the obvious intention of annihilating her.

Now the thing that used to impress me about this almost daily scene was that when Puss didn’t have any kittens—no family responsibilities, as it were—when Spud rushed for her she’d turn tail and do a double-quick for the nearest tree, registering all the fear and retiring qualities that we come to expect in the female of the species.

But when Puss had kittens, still undrowned, particularly when she was enjoying a siesta in their presence, Spud could make his flying start with all the gusto and bluff that is common to cur tactics, but when he arrived at the point of contact Puss would bow her back, never budge an inch and show all the courage of the early Spartans. The result, of course, was that on such occasions the fun was all out of the game for Spud and he was clearly “sold” on the proposition that Puss could not be bluffed, and he’d beat a hasty retreat before getting within paw-length of the confident Puss.

Now, Red, that’s all there is to the story, except the moral. Just consider the salient points. Same dog, same cat, same backyard, but different performance. Why, Red, why? Ah!—you’ve got it, I know. Inspiration—that’s it—that’s the word. Puss with kittens had an inspiration that Puss without them didn’t have.

Now, Boy, take this lesson right home with you and apply it to your own problem. What your salesmen lack is inspiration, and you’re the little doctor with the hypodermic to give it to ’em. Of course, it doesn’t apply literally, even though some people do claim that the man with the big family has as many more reasons as he has mouths to feed, why he should make a success, but—I don’t mean it that way, Red—I don’t mean it that way. You must teach your men to speak and feel about your company as “We,” not as “the house.”

Any man with a single spark of ambition should look forward to an eventual goal, considerably farther than the weekly pay-check. His permanency on their payroll and the advancement he should hope to merit, depends entirely upon the combined efforts of the company family. His success is their success, and without favorable results neither he, nor they, can prosper.

Teach ’em, Red—show ’em their responsibility! Fire their minds and hearts with the fact that they’re not working for the company—bless your heart, Boy, they are the company to all intent and purpose on their territory, and either their lackadaisical or their aggressive, businesslike demeanor and actions will be interpreted by their trade exactly as they appear and the company will be so reflected. And when you tell ’em, Red, be sure that the enthusiasm you have, which as you know, is the fuse that ignites opportunity, is showing in your eyes, your face and is reflected from your heart. Enthusiasm—Inspiration. Ah! Red, it’s contagious—show ’em how proud you are to say “We”—show ’em that it’s a privilege to be a part of an organization that holds the place it does in the firmament of a big business. Sell ’em the company idea first—then sell ’em the line.

After that, Red, if I’m not mistaken, you’ll have ’em sitting on the edge of the chair, rarin’ to go, filled with the kind of red-blooded courage that has made American ideas and American ideals a synonym for accomplishment.

If you sell your salesmen all that, Old Top, and keep ’em sold by your living example, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the results they turn in. If that doesn’t work, then the Old Man’s experience with human nature is a failure and he’ll be disappointed in his own judgment and the ability of his fire-brand son.

Keep me posted—I like it.

Your loving,

“DAD.”