“I sincerely trust you succeed. But it is hard work, my young friend; remember that. When I first went to work I received more hard knocks than dollars.”
“Were you an agent?” questioned Frank, in amazement.
“Yes. I started twenty-six years ago, selling dictionaries and atlases, and wall maps. My whole capital was exactly seven dollars and a half.”
“You must have been what they call a hustler.”
“I was.” Philip Vincent smiled. “I worked about sixteen hours out of twenty-four, and I never lost a chance to sell a book or a map if I could help it. If I stopped at a hotel I did my best to sell the proprietor a map for his office, and if I was in a small town I would try to stop overnight at the home of a teacher or minister and sell him a dictionary or atlas.”
“And did you work from that to this great business?”
“I did. I earned almost every dollar myself. I was alone in the world, outside of an old aunt, who, when she died, left me exactly a hundred and ten dollars, and some old furniture that I sold for fifteen dollars.”
“You ought to be proud of your success.”
“I am proud, in a way. But you can do as well if you will only hustle. I can see that you are naturally bright, and have a winning way with you. A winning way counts for a great deal when selling books.”