That a man of few words
like him should have succeeded as a salesman was a riddle to me.
I subsequently realized that his reticence accentuated an effect of
solidity and helped to inspire confidence in the few words which
he did utter. But at the time in question I was sure that the "gift of
the gab" was an indispensable element of success in a salesman.
Indeed, one of my faults as a drummer, during that period at least,
was that I was apt to talk too much. I would do so partly for the
sheer lust of hearing myself use the jargon of the market, but
chiefly, of course, from eagerness to make a sale, from
over-insistence. I was too exuberant in praising my own goods and
too harsh in criticising those of my competitors.
Altogether there was more emphasis than dignity in my appeal.
One day, as I was haranguing the proprietor of a small department
store in a Michigan town, he suddenly interrupted me by placing a
friendly hand on my shoulder. His name was Henry Gans. He was
a stout man of fifty, with the stamp of American birth on a strong
Jewish face
"Let me give you a bit of advice, young man," he said, with
paternal geniality.
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