A certain concern in New York State had been enjoying prosperity for lo! these many years. Established 'way back in the "Roaring Forties," it had passed through three generations of the same family.
Each morning at nine the president was at his desk opening the mail into three piles—taking great care that no checks fell into the waste basket—as might easily have happened had the task been delegated to the office manager or to his assistant.
It was unfortunate, of course, that no orders reached the stockroom until ten o'clock. But a president must earn his salt. Besides, is there a better way to keep one's finger on the pulse of the business than to know what's in the mail?
Let's take a look at those three piles, though. Here is the daily "take"—a fat pile of checks—with the big one from San Francisco laid carefully aside so that it can be admired a couple of extra times before being placed on the top of the heap.
Reverently the president carries the receipts to his head bookkeeper. With slow and majestic tread, almost.
And over here are the orders.
It's a fat pile, too.
The president casts one last lingering glance at the ½ doz. of something or other ordered by a famous name—and, secure in the knowledge that Fifth Avenue shoppers are still clamoring for his product, hands the sheaf to his office manager who has been pretty fidgety for the past hour and a half because he knows the stock department is going to have a heck of a time making the afternoon express.
Ho, hum! It's a busy life, this being the president of a successful concern doing over a million a year. Why, when grandfather started in, he didn't have a——
But that's another story, and there's that third pile.