Letters From an Old Time Salesman to His Son

by Roy Lester James

A funny coincidence was, the manager was red-headed and sitting across the desk from him was a red-headed youngster who reminded me a good deal of you when you were his age. As I sat there chatting with the manager, I just couldn’t keep my eyes off that boy. Evidently he was office manager, voucher clerk, cashier, chief clerk and everything in the office except the stenographer. The stenographer, by-the-way, was a young man about the same age as the red-head who wasn’t bothered about having to powder his nose, fix his back hair, or go to the rest room every twenty minutes like some female stenographers I’ve heard of.

Both of these chaps were neatly dressed and a credit in appearance to the office. About nine o’clock Red (I’ll just have to call him that) said to the stenographer “Come on, Boy, let’s go” and both of them got up from their desks and went out the door. I didn’t think much of that until a few minutes later I heard the clanking of chains and squeaking of pulleys and looking out I saw Red and the stenographer—now dressed in overalls and jumpers—out bringing stock down from the third floor to the shipping floor by means of a chain and pulley.

I questioned the manager and he said their business there so far was small and his entire force was himself and those two boys. It was, of course, obvious that had he a combination warehouseman and shipping clerk he couldn’t be kept busy but about half the time, so the work must therefore be done by his present force. I watched those fellows while they brought down some hundred or more cases, stenciled them, piled them neatly on the sidewalk in front awaiting the transfer wagons. When finished they came back in the office, picked up their office work where they left off and went to it. I was so interested in that combination that I made it convenient to stay around there all day—I was afraid there was a joker in it some place and I wanted to see. When the transfer man came Red went out and helped load the goods onto the wagon. He wasn’t very big physically—just a boy I tell you—but you should see him get a toe-hold on those pickle barrels. Why, Strangler Lewis never had a thing on him in his palmiest days—and smile—Red—why doggone it he was actually happy in that job and took just as much interest in his work as if he owned the place.

In talking with the manager he got to explaining the different routes of his salesmen and I noticed on the map that there were several large towns that his salesmen didn’t touch. When I asked him specifically about them, he told me he worked them himself and he gave me to understand that he wasn’t one of those chair-warming “directors of sales” but a real, red-blooded, hard-hitting he-manager—one who sent in orders in the same mail with his expense account. It was very apparent that in addition to working the trade he also found time to direct his salesmen, answer his correspondence and be all that a branch manager should be.

Red, I walked out of that branch and down the street and do you know what I was thinking of? Well, I’ll tell you—do you remember that grand old patriotic picture of the drummer, the fifer and the color bearer, tattered, wounded and bandaged, but with set jaws, courage and determination fairly bristling from them—that picture’s called, “The Spirit of ’76”? Well, Boy, I couldn’t help but think of the similarity of the spirit portrayed in the picture and that evidenced by that two-fisted, working manager with his two combination office-men, stenographer, shipping clerk, and warehouseman.

Now, of course, I suppose you’ve got men working for you who would say, if you told them about this occurrence, that they thought it was beneath a man’s dignity to do the things those fellows did and perhaps they’re right in it too, as applied to some places and some conditions. I know all of your managers cannot spend seventy-five per cent of their time out getting orders; I know that office managers, clerks and stenographers cannot be shipping clerks and warehousemen in addition to their other duties, but the big thought I want to get across to you Red, is that here was a place where it not only could be done, but necessary that it should be done if that baby-branch was to get a foot-hold and live, and the beautiful part about it all was, it was done, cheerfully, happily and with a determination to win just like the spirit that was in the minds and hearts of those grand old boys at Valley Forge.

You know, one of the chief duties of a district manager is to be continually on the lookout for good timber—a sort of a scout for the Big League as ’twere. All I have to say is—keep your eye on that combination.

Your loving,

“DAD.”

P. S.—I’ll bet you a new brown derby that red-headed kid will not be pushing pencils and juggling pickle barrels all his life.