Letters From an Old Time Salesman to His Son

Dear Hal:

Mother and I received your letter several days ago and I have given quite some thought to the problems you mention, because I wanted to advise you right, if at all.

Note you say you are not meeting with the success you expected to, in your present campaign and you attribute it to several causes, among them a consumers’ hunger strike, conservative buying and lack of effort on the part of the salesmen.

Well—now, of course, the Old Man may not know as much about it as you do, but from several other statements you made in your letter, I’m wondering if you have really struck the real reason.

I don’t want to misjudge you, Boy, but those reasons you give are becoming so much of a chestnut to me—I’ve heard ’em so often that I’m pretty sure I know their origin. I know that during the holidays—just before Christmas—you could hear those records being played on almost any talking machine that you cared to listen to, but I thought surely, with the coming of the New Year you’d forget the “Stove League Chatter” and chase “Old Man Gloom” out into the sunshine.

You know, I’m reminded of a fellow I used to know when I wore knee breeches. Tom Foreman was a boy who was raised in our town and who never knew what it was to run off to go swimming, rob a melon patch or play hookey. His folks always dressed him nice and he was a fair student in school, but he never batted over about a hundred and twenty-six in the back alley league, so, of course, there was no farewell reception tendered him by “the gang” when his folks decided to send him away to college.

Tom would come back to town for vacations for a brief visit, but somehow or other his schooling didn’t seem to humanize him any and each time he came he seemed to be just a little more “uppish” than the time before, but he was very fond of airing his superior wisdom—sort of casting his pearls before swine, as it were, even though we didn’t give him any encores.

In this particular vicinity the only game that was available was a few cotton-tails and an occasional Jack Rabbit in the winter time, so that hunting had become a lost art and the sportively inclined always looked to some other sort of amusement.

We never knew exactly how it happened, but it seemed like the boys of the Eata Bita Pie Fraternity or whatever it was, got to talking about hunting big game over their pipes one night and Tom suddenly developed one of his bright ideas which had been heretofore extinct and he took to bragging to his fellow pie-biters about the exceptionally good hunting that was available in the vicinity of his old home town. Although this was in the days before prohibition, Tom had never seriously gone in for tonsil irrigation, yet it must have been something that made him wax eloquent, for the first thing we knew he had brought four embryo captains of industry down to our town, all dressed up like a Roosevelt African party and they announced their intention of going out on a big hunt. Tom, of course, was too learned to ask any of the home-guard any questions, so they started out one spring morning in full regalia.

The boys caused quite a little excitement among the fellows whose full dress uniform consisted of a canvas cap with a coffee advertisement printed on it, a pair of overalls and a fifty-cent shirt, but we held that excitement in bounds until they came home in the evening. Of course, we never knew the grewsome details, but along about seven o’clock that night, the hunting party returned. The total bag of the day consisted of three ground squirrels, a hawk, one rabbit and Lafe Benson’s tom-cat—and say, you should have heard the profane vocabulary that those city chaps spilled every time Tom came near them. Of course, Tom was their host and all that and they had to end their remarks with an apology, but to sit around and listen you couldn’t help but gather the idea that Tom graded a good deal lower than water goods in fruits, when they classified him as a huntsman.

Now, I just mention this story in passing, because it brings out the fact that Tom and his party hadn’t analyzed the situation. Their intentions were good and they had plenty of equipment, but the dumb-bell that was leading the party, Tom, hadn’t given the matter any thought and had no definite plan. He was just hoping that through some miracle all the game for miles around would just come up and plead to be shot.

You know, Red, some Branch House Managers employ similar tactics. They have the product, the samples, the salesmen and the enthusiasm, but they don’t analyze the possibilities—they don’t compare the sales with the available prospects in a territory—they allow their salesmen to take a turn-down from a buyer who should buy big, without attempting to make another trial. You know an amateur hunter sometimes shoots into a flock of ducks and wings a couple and you can sometimes stick a shotgun under a corncrib and pull the trigger without looking and maybe kill a rabbit, but the thinking hunter sees the game and does his best to pick ’em off, one by one, and generally comes in at night with a full bag. A manager who allows his salesmen to come out of a town that has five prospects, with two orders and three excuses, hasn’t taught ’em right.

The hunger strike was in Ireland—Red—not in your territory! Conservative buying can be overcome, by not being a conservative seller—SELL MORE OF ’EM and OFTENER.

Your salesmen’s effort will not worry you if you don’t waste it—direct ’em, Boy, ANALYZE—HAVE A PLAN!

Remember, if your next letter don’t tell of your being a top-notcher in your campaign, it’s going to hurt the pride of

Your loving,

“DAD.”