“Well, sir, when I finished with him it was
close onto luncheon time, but I didn’t do anything
but go hungry for awhile. I took my notebook,
made out his order, as quickly as I could, wired it
into the firm (it cost me twelve dollars to do this),
and told them to be absolutely sure to put all hands
to work on that order and ship it on the four o’clock
fast freight that very day. I had to be in town
the next day. Soon after breakfast I went into
the druggist’s store. I caught him back
at his desk. I saw him blot the ink on an envelope
he had just addressed. About this time a lady
came in to get a prescription filled. As the
druggist turned his back I quickly lifted the blotter
and, seeing that the letter was addressed to my firm,
let it cover the envelope again. I knew this
was a cancellation letter.
“After the lady had gone out with her medicine,
I asked the druggist to show me some hair brushes
which were in the case at the other end of the store
from the desk. I made up my mind that it was going
to take me longer to buy that hairbrush than it did
the old man to buy my bill of wall paper. I was
getting his time. But I didn’t rub my fingers
over many bristles before up backed a dray loaded to
the guards with the goods from my firm. The drayman
came in and handed the druggist the bill of lading.
“‘What’s this?’ said he.
“‘I’m treed,’ said the drayman.
‘They’re as heavy as lead.’
[Illustration: “I’m treed,”
said the drayman, “they’re as heavy as
lead.”]
“With this the drayman rolled the cases into
the druggist’s store. Well, sir, he was
the cheapest looking fellow you ever saw, but he kept
the goods, all right, and this cured him of cancelitis.”
CHAPTER XIII.
CONCERNING CREDIT MEN.
The credit man was the subject of our talk as a crowd
of us sat, one Sunday afternoon, in the writing-room
of the Palace Hotel at San Francisco. The big
green palm in the center of the room cast, from its
drooping and fronded branches, shadows upon the red
rugs carpeting the stone floor. This was a peaceful
scene and wholly unfitting to the subject of our talk.
“I would rather herd sheep in a blizzard,”
blurted out the clothing man, “than make credits.
Yes, I would rather brake on a night way-freight;
be a country doctor where the roads are always muddy;
a dray horse on a granite-paved street; anything for
me before being a credit man! It is the most
thankless job a human being can hold. It is like
being squeezed up against the dock by a big steamship.
If you ship goods and they’re not paid for,
the house kicks; if you turn down orders sent in,
the traveling man raises a howl. None of it for
me. No, sir!”
“I have always been fairly lucky,” spoke
up the hat man. “I’ve never been
with but two houses in my life and I’ve really
never had any trouble with my credit men. They
were both reasonable, broad-minded, quick-witted,
diplomatic gentlemen. If a man’s credit
were doubtful in their minds, they would usually ask
me about him, or even wire me, sometimes, if an order
were in a rush, to tell them what I thought of the
situation. And they would always pay attention
to what I said.”
