The Boy Has Been Bragging a Little
Dear Hal:
Mother and I have had quite a discussion tonight about your last letter and we’ve just about come to the conclusion that you’re eating too much rooster meat, or something else with similar effect, for your last letter certainly shows that you’re getting “cocky.” Of course, you may have reason to be, on account of something you’re holding back. Maybe Mother and I don’t quite appreciate just how important you really are, but anyway the local cigar man hasn’t displayed any cigar boxes with your pictures on ’em yet, so we’re forced to assume that you’re just feeling your oats a bit.
I notice that you’ve arrived at the place where you complain quite a little about the damphool things the Chicago office writes you about and the asininity of some of their requests and plans. It seems they’ve insulted your intelligence by questioning some of your moves and that they certainly have had enough experience with you to know that you wouldn’t do anything but one way, which, of course, is the right way, and you’re getting tired of being bothered with so many bunglers and policies.
Now, Red, if you think that your otherwise good letter is going to kindle a single spark of sympathy in the Old Man, you’re just as mistaken as if you’d torn your shirt.
The first thing I wonder about is, just how do you get that way? I suppose you’ve been working pretty hard, your digestion is bad, or else you’ve quit smoking or something else has turned up to change the even alto of your way, because the symptoms you are displaying are not at all new to me, or anyone else who has gotten over the college yell days of business life. No—we’ve all gone thru it, Boy, we’ve all gone thru it, and the only question in my mind in your case is, will it turn out to be only baby rash, or a genuine case of the measles?
You know, ever since Hector was a pup, pretty nearly every five-fingered snoozer has sometime or other in his life arrived at a place where he thought everything he did was one hundred per cent right and he formed a hundred and five proof pity for the poor unfortunate numskulls who didn’t agree with him. It’s a sort of childhood disease that has to be gone thru, like mumps, chicken-pox or hog cholera. The majority of the victims recover after a very brief illness and there have been but few cases where it actually killed the victim. However, there are numerous cases on record where it has necessitated an operation to remove the ego and quite a few instances where it has left the victim in such shape that they had to seek out-door employment like ringing up fares on the back platform of a street car, or riding on top of a hansom cab.
Now Mother and I are not very much concerned in your case, because we know you have a rugged constitution that will pull you thru the crisis, but we’re wondering if it wouldn’t do you a little good to sort of hold up the mirror and let you see just how ludicrous you look to the rest of the world while you’re suffering from this malady. Remember how funny you looked when you had the mumps and when you were all broken out with Liberty measles? Well, Boy, if that brought the smiles of the onlookers, your present indisposition makes ’em burst out laughing.
Now listen, Red, your entire trouble can be diagnosed as just a perverted point of view and every time I use that expression I am reminded of a call I once made at a hospital when the nurse and the doctor called me in to get my first peep at a little squirming mite of humanity that afterwards learned to call me Dad. In my enthusiasm and paternal pride, I exclaimed “Some girl” but the doctor just shook his head and said, “No, you’re mistaken—a boy.” Now Red, I wasn’t exactly an idiot. I knew more or less about babies and all that, but the reason the doctor and I didn’t agree was purely point of view. He knew, whereas I was only jumping at conclusions.
But to go back to your symptoms. Of course, I know you’re going to tell me where you can point out where you were asked by Chicago to furnish information, or do something that you knew wasn’t what they wanted—was nonsensical, etc., and I’ll agree with you—now—think a minute! Chicago don’t claim to be above errors, mistakes and cases of bad judgment. Of course not, and do you know why they make no such claims? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because they’ve gone thru and gotten over the same illness you have. They know as long as they are dealing with the human equation, errors will creep in, but haven’t you noticed, now be honest Red, that they don’t jump at conclusions like you do and doesn’t it occur to you that if they have found clairvoyance impractical as compared to cold fact, that they will naturally ask more questions, demand clearer explanations and expect you to conduct your end in a more self-explanatory fashion than otherwise?
The trouble with you, Old Top, is that when you get a letter from Chicago requesting a little, simple thing and especially if they don’t go to the trouble to explain every reason why they want it, which they shouldn’t have to do, you immediately begin to hunt for holes in it. Instead of thinking along the lines of how quick you can comply, you begin to wonder if there’s a hidden meaning in it; if they couldn’t get the same thing some other place, etc., and you burn up ten times as much energy and write more letters trying not to do what is wanted than you would if you’d just go about and do it.
You know, Red, when you were a little fellow you had the same symptoms, but I thought you’d outgrow ’em. When you were about nine years old and would do something that I thought you should be disciplined for slightly, I would frequently order you to go over and sit down in a certain chair. After so much hesitation you’d start, but you’d take a circuitous route, knock over the piano bench, kick the cat and eventually, if I kept after you, you’d arrive at the chair designated, but afterward, when in lower mathematics you learned the axiom that the shortest distance between two given points was a straight line, I thought you had gotten over it, but I guess not—eh, what?
Now to make you feel a little better, I’ll admit that men higher up than you often get the wrong point of view and I’ll illustrate. One time information came to the home office that a certain competitor was putting a special pack on the market in a certain large city, but not letting it be known that it was special by packing it under the same label that they were using all over the country. Naturally, this was important and needed quick investigation. Chicago wired their manager in that city to pick up some samples of that brand and send in immediately.
Chicago didn’t go to the trouble to explain their reasons—it wasn’t necessary and long telegrams cost money. A few days later they received a letter from this manager which read something like this: “I received your wire asking me to send you samples of Blank’s Beans. I cannot understand why you should bother me with a request of this kind when all you’d have to do would be to go into any store in Chicago and buy the same thing, therefore, I am not complying with your request.” He even went so far as to send a copy to the Boss expiating on the asininity of the dumb-bell making such a request and, of course, expecting quite a pat on the back for his forethought.
I guess I don’t need to finish the story; you can imagine the Golden Text that the Boss thought of after reading the letter, particularly considering that it was his suggestion in the first place.
Now Red, this means only one thing—if you’re loyal (and you are) don’t look for the holes in every proposition that’s put up to you until you arrive at a position where your chief duties are to look for those holes. As long as you’re working under someone else, give your superior the benefit of the doubt. He may make some mistakes, but don’t be trying to read his mind. Don’t get cynical—give the other fellow credit for having a reason for asking what he does. Get out your old yellow copy of Elbert Hubbard’s preachment “The Message to Garcia” and note how that fellow, when given a task, didn’t look for the holes in it, or question the motive, but went ahead and did it.
There’s a lesson in it for you, Boy—get it!
Your loving,
“DAD.”