"Well," he says, "I saved the Hamilton Construction Company just $6,547.98 last year by cutting down the excessive use of lead pencils and blotters alone!"
"That's fine!" says Alex. "No doubt they give you a handsome bonus for that, hey?"
"Of course," says Jared. "They raised my salary to thirty-five dollars a week. I was only getting thirty-two and a half."
"You saved them six thousand last year and they raised you about a hundred and thirty, eh?" says Alex. "Now, listen! Why couldn't you have made that six thousand for yourself just as easy?"
"Why—I—why—" stammers Jared. "I have no chance to make anything but my salary. I'm simply working there, and—"
"And you always will be, if you don't get wise to yourself!" butts in Alex. "Your boss—"
"My boss, eh?" sneers Jared. "Say, he hasn't got the brains of a gnat! He'd be absolutely up in the air if I wasn't at his elbow with data and estimates on everything. He doesn't know anything, and—"
"No, I guess not!" butts in Alex, with a odd grin. "He don't know anything—only how to make money! Say, listen! If this boss of yours is such a boob, what must you be? You're workin' for him, ain't you? Why should he have any brains, when he can rent yours for thirty-five dollars a week? Now, listen to me, son. You know a little about everything on earth, with the slight exception of yourself! The figures that should interest you more than anything else is these: For every dollar you make, your boob boss is makin' a thousand. Ever figure them statistics along with the other stuff?"
Jared registers embarrassment. "Look here!" he says. "I really don't see the reason of all this. I consider myself quite successful. I may not be making a million a week, but I'm always sure of my job, and that's quite a lot!"
"You're always sure of your job, hey?" bawls Alex. "That's the slogan of the quitter! 'I'm gettin' my little old salary fifty-two weeks a year, and that's good enough for me.' That's the motto of the loser." With that he jumps up and sticks his face so close to Jared I thought he was gonna bite him or the like. "What about the future?" he hollers. "You must have brains, or you couldn't of collected that mass of junk in your dome. You got a million dollars' worth of salable stuff from the top of your collar to the crown of your derby and you're peddlin' it away for thirty-five a week. I'll bet right now you could produce a scheme for gettin' a quarter that would be unbeatable, legitimate, and successful. But if you was asked to dope out a scheme for gettin' twenty-five thousand dollars, the size of the figures alone would knock that thinker of yours cold! You can't think that big. Your mind's all cluttered up with little things. It's a junk pile. The same concentration and perseverance on some one big thing would put you over—and if you don't believe it, ask your boob boss, which undoubtedly did just that and is now keepin' you!"