But when I caught the proprietor of the general store during a lull in the demand for navy plug, he wouldn’t even look at my samples, and when I began to hint that the people were pretty ornery dressers he reckoned that he “would paste me one if I warn’t so young.” Wanted to know what I meant by coming swelling around in song-and-dance clothes and getting funny at the expense of people who made their living honestly. Allowed that when it came to a humorous get-up my clothes were the original end-man’s gag.
I noticed on the way back to the hotel that every fellow holding up a hitching-post was laughing, and I began to look up and down the street for the joke, not understanding at first that the reason why I couldn’t see it was because I was it. Right there I began to learn that, while the Prince of Wales may wear the correct thing in hats, it’s safer when you’re out of his sphere of influence to follow the styles that the hotel clerk sets; that the place to sell clothes is in the city, where every one seems to have plenty of them; and that the place to sell mess pork is in the country, where every one keeps hogs. That is why when a fellow comes to me for advice about moving to a new country, where there are more opportunities, I advise him—if he is built right—to go to an old city where there is more money.
I wrote in to the house pretty often on that trip, explaining how it was, going over the whole situation very carefully, and telling what our competitors were doing, wherever I could find that they were doing anything.
I gave old Hammer credit for more curiosity than he possessed, because when I reached Cairo I found a telegram from him reading: “Know what our competitors are doing: they are getting all the trade. But what are you doing?” I saw then that the time for explaining was gone and that the moment for resigning had arrived; so I just naturally sent in my resignation. That is what we will expect from you—or orders.
Your affectionate father,
John Graham.
No. 11
FROM John Graham, at the Union Stock Yards in Chicago, to his son, Pierrepont, at The Planters’ Palace Hotel, at Big Gap, Kentucky. Mr. Pierrepont’s orders are small and his expenses are large, so his father feels pessimistic over his prospects.