“Yes; he was a Greenbacker, and anti-monopoly, and lots of other things. Some of these days he'll be Mayor of New York, or go to Congress, and he'll be heard from. His public life is profitable now, for it helps to advertise Thurber's business.” “Well,” said another, “You've got to get up mighty early to get ahead of Hoyt in Chicago. They don't sell as many dollars, perhaps, as Thurber, but they have sand, and they don't put it in their sugar, either.” “I like groceries. A dealer has to buy them, whether times are good or bad. Folks must eat.” “And take medicine?” “Yes, and take medicine. And, by the way, do you know that the grocers are giving druggists a lively time on medicines? They are. Thurber has a drug department, and advertises them at 'a grocer's profit.' Lots of others have gone in, and the day will soon be here when a man can buy his sugar and quinine in the same place.” “What will druggists do?” “What have they been doing the last ten years? Sell teas and coffees, cigars and tobaccos, and fancy goods. Look at a drug store in holidays, and it is full of plush cases, placques, bronzes, and goods that were supposed to belong to jewelers. The bars are dropping down in every line.” “Business is done in queer ways,” said a man who was sitting near me. “Tobacco men give away guns in order to sell their tobacco; coffee is sold by giving plated ware, baking powder by glassware, boots and shoes by giving dolls and sleds, ready-made clothing by a prize of a Waterbury watch, and soap by giving jewelry. Nowadays a dealer don't ask you about the quality of your goods, but about the scheme you've got to sell them. It's a demoralizing way of doing business, and ruining trade.” “That's so! That's so!” was echoed from all sides. CHAPTER XII. Stepping into a hardware store early the next morning, after introducing myself I was handed a letter sent to me in the care of the firm. I was very glad to receive it, and accepted the pleasantly given invitation to sit down and read it. No man should greet a letter with more welcome than a traveling salesman. It is a tie that connects him with home, he who is so wholly disconnected. He is always wondering what his house may think of this sale, or that price, or this failure to sell, and be he never so sure that he has done well, still the assurance from home that they recognize his success makes him happier. Houses differ much in their manner of writing to their traveling men. A friend of mine who lately made a change told me his principal reason for leaving the old house was the letters they wrote him. “I never cut a price in the world, unless I had to do it to meet a competitor; but if I did it, no matter for what cause, I was sure to be reminded that I had not been sent out to 'cut,' but to make money. Yet when I came home and explained why I did it, I was told I had done the right thing. But they nagged me the next trip just the same, and I grew tired of it.”