Page:The Tales of a Traveller.djvu/70

58 Harris once told me never to mind a knock, that every knock was practically a boost. When I told him of one particular case, he spoke to me in this manner:

"Skidelsky," he said, "don't mind these things; ignore them. The fact that they are talking about you should convince you that you are somebody. Else they would never take the trouble to mention your name. Go about your business in a straightforward manner, and you'll come out on top."

I pass on the good advice to my young friends on the road.

Now let us return to the third class of salesman—the shabby, unprepossessing ones. It is a serious mistake for a man to neglect his appearance. The first impression, as every salesman on the road well realizes, counts much. When the man that offers the goods is healthy and well set up and prosperous in appearance, the buyer unconsciously tends to feel that the goods themselves are excellent in quality. When the salesman, however, is shabby and drab and dingy, the natural tendency is for the buyer to associate the man and his goods and be prejudiced against the latter. The little extra expenditure of time and money that are involved in keeping oneself well groomed are more than repaid in actual business results.

There are but few men on the road now whom I met in 1888, when I started out. Some have long since retired; others have joined the great majority in "The undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveler returns." This reminds me that I am getting somewhat older myself; and the question often arises in my mind how long I shall continue on my yearly rounds. But I dismiss these thoughts as unworthy of serious consideration. Why cross the bridge before you come to it? So long as my health permits, I shall continue to visit my friends. I say friends advisedly, for I consider every one of my numerous customers—men who encouraged me in my younger days when I was poor and inexperienced, and men who have spurred me on in my endeavors as the years rolled along—as personal friends. I do not like to think of the day when I will no longer pay my periodical visits to these good friends of mine.

There was Bert Eddy, for example, the soul of good fellowship, jolly, witty; the man who, it was claimed, could sit astride a rail and induce a farmer to give him an order for a carload of vegetable seed. He could equally as well entertain an audience of florists on one of the Atlantic City piers, during the convention of 1894, in his role of Falstaff, in a Shakespearian presentation. He was the type of salesman who could adapt himself to any condition and make the best of any situation.

There was one man—let us call him John Smith—who divided his time between his business affairs and bucket-shops. A Scotchman by birth, he acquired habits not characteristic of his countrymen. He was a speculator, spending every dollar that he made on oats, sugar, and other products offered the unwary by the clever bucket-shop manipulators, happily long since extinct. It is not known that John ever got any benefits out of his investments. It is known, though, that at the time he died, in a little room in some cheap lodging place in Providence, R. I., the florists of the town paid his funeral expenses. John was a peculiar character, in many ways. He knew how to play the game of piety when that happened to suit his purpose, and be one of the boys if it were more to his advantage that way. On one occasion he called on a man who was well known for his religious tendencies and advocacy of temperance. Although addicted to the Scotch highball, John pretended in this case that he was a White Ribboner, denouncing the evils of drink with all the vehemence of a truly inspired soul, thus ingratiating himself with the man whose order he was after. He played his game well, though I question if he succeeded in fooling his customers all of the time.

And there were others of the type, long gone though not forgotten by their numerous friends.