Sitting at the breakfast table of the hotel next morning a gentleman opposite looked up pleasantly and asked:
“Are you selling goods, sir?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What line?”
“Guns and sporting goods.”
“Yes? I'm a little in that line myself.” And he handed me his card.
HOPSBY, COCKLEY & CO.,
20 Warren Street,
New York City.
“My name is Cockley,” he added.
I had heard of him often, and was very glad to meet him, though I would have been still happier if he were not selling the Norwich revolvers. I always had a feeling that I stood a poor show when I was in direct competition with other salesmen in my line, and I never felt quite comfortable with them.
“How is trade?” I asked.
“Well, rather dull on the road; but they write me it is booming at home. We have a large South American trade that the elder Mr. Hopsby, being a fluent Spanish scholar, and author of that well-known work, 'Spanish As She Is Walked,' looks after, while young Mr. Hopsby looks after his father and me, and it keeps him busy.”
“You have a good many lines beside pistols?” I asked.
“Oh, yes; pistols are a side issue. I sold Deming 1,237 Waterbury watches, and Blossom a car-load of can-openers. I sell Pribyl here a ton of nail-pullers at a time. Did you ever see the Waterbury watch?”
“I have not seen it lately.”
“Then take these two; no, put them both in your pockets; I always give a man two, so he can check off one by the other. A Waterbury watch is one of the greatest blessings in the world. Babies can drop them; boys can throw them at each other, and women can use them as stocking-darners. Mr. Hopsby drops one into the contribution box every Sunday, and expects, in the course of a few years, to provide every young African with a time piece.”
I didn't get it quite clear in my mind whether Cockley was guying me or not, but he looked as if he were simply trying to be sociable.
“Have you been long on the road?” he asked.
“No; this is my first trip.”
“That so? You look quite at home. I remember my first trip; it was in New England, and I was selling sewing-machine needles. Mr. Hopsby took me around a corner before I started and, presenting me with a nail-puller, told me he was afraid he was doing wrong to send me out, I was so young; but that I was to remember that the only way to prosperity was in getting orders. It hadn't struck me in just that light before, but the more I thought it over the more I believed he was right. The first man I tackled was a pious-looking deacon, and I began to whistle 'The Ninety and Nine' as I went toward him, so that he might understand that I was a Bible class scholar. I worked over that brother for two mortal hours, and finally got mad. 'If you only played billiards,' said I, 'I'd lick you like thunder.' 'You can't do it,' said he, and in less than ten minutes we were at the table across the street. I was just more than walloping him, when suddenly I remembered the tearful injunctions of Mr. Hopsby. I let him beat me three games, and then sold him $60 worth of needles.”
“You have been on the road a long time?”
“Twenty-two years come Valentine's day.”
I looked incredulous.
“Oh, I began young. Chris. Morgan, George Bartlett, Sam Parmelee, Charley Healey, and I started on the same day. We now leave New York Saturday night, give Cleveland, Monday; Toledo and Detroit, Tuesday; Fort Wayne and Indianapolis, Wednesday; Chicago, Thursday; St. Louis, Friday; Cincinnati, Saturday; and are in New York for business the next Monday morning.”
“That is fast traveling.”
“Yes, but we have the trade educated up to it. We tell them 'no bouquets,' 'no parties,' but just orders. We telegraphed ahead to Toledo, the other day, so that while the train waited twenty minutes for dinner I sold three bills.”
The was all said so honestly and so pleasantly that I had to believe he was sincere, but at the same time I knew it wasn't strictly correct, and I felt more and more uncomfortable.
“How do you like this hotel?”
“Pretty well; I'm not very particular.”
“You will be when you have been ten or fifteen years on the road. Hotels are a large part of your life. I left word at the Julian House, in Dubuque, to be called at six o'clock, the other night, and about four I heard some one pounding away, so I asked what was up. The musical voice of the watchmen came back: 'It's now 4 o'clock, and I'm going off watch, so yees has two hours yet to sleep before 6 o'clock.' Now that struck me as a family arrangement, and I'm going to have it extended to other houses.”
“There's something about hotels I don't like,” I said.
“What's that? The whisky? It is poor here, but you will find it better farther West.”
“No,” I said, “I'm not much interested in the whisky. What I dislike about hotels is the loneliness.”
“Yes, that's so. For that reason I like to travel with a party. I get Brother Little, he sells Pillsbury flour, and is a first-rate player on the harmonica, and Al Bevins (the talented sleigh-bell artist), who plays on a $2 music box, while I play on a double police whistle equal to any man in America. We take possession of the parlor and invite the landlord's family in, and, I tell you, we make it home-like! How would you like to try a little concert here to-night?”
I begged off most emphatically, and said I must go for business. “Hold on, we'll go together. Do you know any one here?”
I confessed that I did not.
“Neither do I; so we can be of great help to each other. I'll introduce you, and then you can introduce me.”
I felt as if I stood a good chance of getting into some kind of a scrape before I got away from him; but off we started. We were going down the street when Cockley struck an attitude and pointed to a sign over the way:
“I told you I knew no one; I was joking. There's a friend's. Let's go over and see Bewell. He'll be glad to see us and give us the whole town. He was in New York this spring, and we had a good time together studying up art. After he had once seen the game piece in Stewart's it was impossible to keep him away from it. I never saw men so devoted to aesthetics as he and Joe Gildersleeve were. He said the best way to see the picture was through a glass of rum and molasses, and he looked at it in that light about thirteen times a day.”
I followed him in with some fear of a joke being played on me, but his manner changed at the door, and we met Bewell as if we were all deacons. He gave Cockley a very warm reception, as if thoroughly glad to see him. I concluded I was in the way, so with a promise to call later, I betook myself to another house. I did not meet Cockley again for many months.
I thought him over when I had time, and was not surprised that I had always heard him spoken of as being a very successful salesman. The half-hour that we were together had made me like him, and the way that he went into Bewell's store showed me that he knew when to be dignified as well as when to be jolly. I especially liked the way in which he spoke of his partners; in my way of thinking this is one of the signs of a broad man. The small, petty-minded fellows are sure to have a complaint to make of their house or buyers or partners. In following Cockley's steps since I have always heard him pleasantly spoken of by merchants and travelers.
I found the store, to which I took my way, a large wholesale hardware house. I observed as I entered that one man was very angry about something, while he talked to another whom I took to be his traveling man. I did not care to bother him until he was through, so nodded a good morning and took a chair. I soon found the man was angry over allowances the traveler had made in the previous week, and I was much interested and strongly in sympathy with him.
“What did Labar say about the goods he returned?” he asked, as his eye caught that name in the list in his hand.
“He claimed that he ordered dish-pans and that we sent rinsing-pans, and that the brushes were moth eaten.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said as little as I could.”
“I wish you had told him that he was a contemptible cur. A man who will lie over $4.80 worth of goods, after keeping them in his hands ninety days, and seeing you twice meantime without saying a word, is a mighty small man. He knew from the price what the pans would be, but he never thought of any such excuse until after we drew on him for his long overdue bill. Of course our kicking does no good, because other houses will sell him until they have similar experiences with him, and it will take a good while to go around. If I was as mean as some of these whelps I'd shoot myself. Did Simpson pay up?”
“He paid the balance of the bill, but would not pay interest; said that we were the only house that charged interest, and he should never buy of us again.”
“The miserable little liar! I don't suppose a house is in existence that lets a bill run five months after due and does not add interest. When are you going out?”
“On the next train.”
“Well, try and collect the balance due from Stone, but don't sell him another dollar; there are decent men enough in the trade, let the mean ones go. If he does not pay, get the name of a reliable justice and we will send a sworn account to him. But don't sell him again.”
“They're good as wheat.”
“I know they are good in the sense of being responsible; mean men usually are; but it is not a question of their responsibility; they are tricky and untruthful, and their idea of being smart is to lie over goods and prices and compel a deduction. Give them the go-by. Well, good-by; don't worry over trade; do your best and we will be satisfied.”
if you wanted to sell me something.”
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