Fifteen years ago a lad graduated from an Eastern university. His folks were poor but proud—as Mr. Alger used to say—but managed to see Phil through. Phil had made a good record in school—and some good friends. Through one of them he got a letter to Mr. H—, the head of an old established firm of stockbrokers—and the letter got him a job.
The job paid $5 a week. Even in those days there wasn't much left over after carfare and lunches had been deducted.
But Phil was "learning the bond business." He wouldn't be worth even $5 a week the first six months. After that, maybe.
He stuck. Graduated from "running the street" to a stool in the stock clerk's cage. Came the New Year and Phil found an extra dollar in his pay envelope. He asked the cashier if there wasn't some mistake. There wasn't.
Two days later he got a job in a factory near his home at $12 a week. Told Mr. H— he was leaving. Was offered $15 to stay. Wouldn't.
Mr. H— confessed later that he had let the most promising prospect in years slip through his fingers. All—if you ask us—because it was a fixed policy of the house to treat all alike.
For years it had been doing just exactly that. Each June it took on a new crop of young men to "learn the business." Each young man got $5 a week. No favorites. But nine out of every ten came from prosperous, even wealthy families. That $5 bill was nothing in their young lives. Their families were glad to have them work for nothing, for they were getting an insight into the investment business—and some day, whether they became bond salesmen or just plain manufacturers and solid bankers, that knowledge would be worth its weight in gold.
Phil was the tenth man. Mr. H— knew well enough that he couldn't get by on $5 a week. But there was the rule. It couldn't be broken.
No, we can't wind up by telling how Phil did well in the pants factory, married the boss's daughter and owns the business today. That would be wandering far from the truth. He couldn't "see" the boss' daughter for one thing—and besides the pants factory wasn't such a much.
No, you'll find Phil today doing a bang-up job in an Ohio plant. It says "General Manager" on his door. And as far as he is concerned, it was the best thing that ever happened when Mr. H— treated him like all the rest.