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That man today gives me all of his business; I got him by being square.

By being over-conscientious, however, a salesman sometimes will not let his customer buy enough. This is frequently to the disadvantage of the merchant. To sell goods a merchant must have goods; to have them he must buy them. The stingy man has no business in business. Many a man becomes a merchant and, because he is either too close-fisted or hasn’t enough capital or credit with which to buy goods, is awakened, some fine morning, by the tapping on his front door of the Sheriff’s hammer. A man may think that if he goes into business his friends will buy “any old thing, just because it’s me”; but he will find out that when he goes to separate his friends from their coin he must give them the kind of goods they want. The successful merchant is the man who carries the stock.

One of my old friends, who was a leading hat salesman of St. Louis, once told me the following experience:

“Several years ago I was out in western Texas on a team trip. It was a flush year; cattle were high. I had been having a good time; you know how it goes–the more one sells the more he wants to sell and can sell. I heard of a big cattleman who was also running a cross-roads grocery store. He wanted to put in dry goods, shoes and hats. His store was only a few miles out of my way so I thought that I would drive over and see him.

“How I kicked myself when I drove up to his shanty, hardly larger, it seemed to me, than my straw-goods trunk! But, being there, I thought I would pick up a small bill anyway. I make it a rule never to overlook even a little order, for enough of them amount to as much as one big one. When I went in the old gentleman was tickled to see me and told me to open up–that he wanted a ‘right smart’ bill. I thought that meant about $75.

“I had to leave my trunks outside–the store was so small–so I brought in at first only a couple of stacks of samples, thinking that they would be enough. I pulled out a cheap hat and handed it to him.

“‘That’s a good one for the money,’ said I, ‘a dollar apiece.’ I used to always show cheap goods first, but I have learned better.

“He looked at my sample in contempt and, pulling a fine Stetson hat off his head, said: ‘Haven’t you got some hats like this one?’

“‘Yes, but they will cost you $84 a dozen,’ I answered, at the same time handing him a fine beaver quality Stetson.

“‘The more they cost the better they suit us cattlemen; we are not paupers, suh! How many come in a box?’

“‘Two.’

“‘Two?’ said he. ‘You must be talking about a pasteboard box; I mean a wooden box, a case.’

“‘Three dozen come in a case, Colonel.’

“‘Well, give me a case.’

“I had never sold a case of these fine goods in my life, so I said to him: ‘That’s lots more, Colonel, than I usually sell of that kind, and I don’t want to overload you; hadn’t we better make it a dozen?’

“‘Dozen? Lor’, no. You must think that there’s nobody in this country, that they haven’t any money, and that I haven’t any money. Did you see that big bunch of cattle as you came in? They’re all mine–mine, suh; and I don’t owe the bank a cent on them, suh. No, suh, not a cent, suh. I want a case of these hats, suh–not a little bundle that you can carry under yo’ arm.’

“I was afraid that I had made the old gentleman mad, and, knowing him by reputation to be worth several thousand dollars, I thought it best to let him have his way. I went through the two stacks with him and then brought in the rest of my samples. He bought a case of a kind right through–fine hats, medium hats and cheap hats for greasers; he bought blacks, browns and light colors. I was ashamed to figure up the bill before his face. But just as soon as I got out of sight I added up the items and it amounted to $2l00–the best bill I took on that trip.