left in him.
He stumbled and sat down in the weeds, coughing, staring at us.
"Starved," he said dully, as though he were talking to himself. "Just plain starved, that's all that was the matter with her. And it won't be no different when she gets out. Starvin', her and me together; freezin' when it's cold, scorchin' when it's hot, livin' like no one ever let a dog live. W-what—what's—"
He broke off, gripped in another paroxysm of coughing. He wheezed, spat and spoke again.
"What's a guy gonna do?" he said. "What's he gonna do when he does all he can and it ain't nowheres good enough? Huh? How about it?" He glared at us fiercely for a moment. Then, his eyes lowered and he addressed the question to the ground, to the soured, sun-baked earth. "What's a guy gonna do, anyway? What's a guy gonna do? What's a guy gonna..."
Durkin gripped my arm suddenly, and steered me toward the car. "It's him or us," he said. "Them or us. What's a guy going to do?"
10
I had beginner's luck that first week. Perhaps I was assigned to some of the easier accounts, or perhaps my customers were feeling me out—taking my measure—before getting tough with me. At any rate, I did very well and without having to resort to the tactics which Durkin had used. The quaint notions grew in my mind that (1) I was the world's champion collector, and (2) that the store's clients were merely misguided and misunderstood. They didn't pay because they had not been made to see the importance of paying. Because they were approached with abuse, they responded with it.
Saturday night came, and Mr. Clark detained me after the other collectors had left for a few words of hearty praise. "I knew you'd be a top man," he declared. "You keep this up and you'll be making more dough than your college professors."
"Oh, well," I smirked, my head swelling three sizes, "I don't expect to make 'that' much."
"You'll do fine. You've got the size—that's the important thing. Throw a good enough scare into these bastards to begin with and you can take it easy from then on."
"Well," I hesitated, uncomfortably. Somehow the fact had evaded me that the store's four collectors and Clark as well were all very large men. "I don't think size has much to do with it, Mr. Clark. I mean—"
"Maybe not," he shrugged. "We always hire 'em big, but I suppose there are plenty of tough little guys. They wouldn't have the psychological advantage, of course, but—"
"I don't mean that," I said. And I went on to tell him what I did mean. That the customers should be treated with kindness—firmly but kindly. Treat them as oneself would like to be treated if in the same circumstances.
Clark stared at me blankly as I expounded my theory. Then, at last, his broad flatnosed face puckered in a grin, and he guffawed. "By God!" He slapped his hand on the counter. "You really had me going there for a minute, Jim!...Treat 'em nice, huh? Be kind to 'em. I think I'll pull that one on the home office!"
"Well," I said, "I guess it does sound kind of funny, but—"
"What a sense of humor! What a kidder!" He burst into another round of guffaws. "Well, have a nice weekend and I'll see you Monday."
I spent the weekend working on the old car I had bought. Monday noon, still stubbornly convinced that I had solved the secret of successful collecting, I went back on the job. It was just about my last day on earth.
My first customer was an employee of a rendering plant, a place which, due to the hellish odor it exuded, was located in the outskirts of the city. Here the unfortunates of the area's animal population were brought—those that had died of old age or disease or accident. Here they were converted into hides and tallow, glue, bristles and bone.
I parked my car in the stinking,
He stumbled and sat down in the weeds, coughing, staring at us.
"Starved," he said dully, as though he were talking to himself. "Just plain starved, that's all that was the matter with her. And it won't be no different when she gets out. Starvin', her and me together; freezin' when it's cold, scorchin' when it's hot, livin' like no one ever let a dog live. W-what—what's—"
He broke off, gripped in another paroxysm of coughing. He wheezed, spat and spoke again.
"What's a guy gonna do?" he said. "What's he gonna do when he does all he can and it ain't nowheres good enough? Huh? How about it?" He glared at us fiercely for a moment. Then, his eyes lowered and he addressed the question to the ground, to the soured, sun-baked earth. "What's a guy gonna do, anyway? What's a guy gonna do? What's a guy gonna..."
Durkin gripped my arm suddenly, and steered me toward the car. "It's him or us," he said. "Them or us. What's a guy going to do?"
10
I had beginner's luck that first week. Perhaps I was assigned to some of the easier accounts, or perhaps my customers were feeling me out—taking my measure—before getting tough with me. At any rate, I did very well and without having to resort to the tactics which Durkin had used. The quaint notions grew in my mind that (1) I was the world's champion collector, and (2) that the store's clients were merely misguided and misunderstood. They didn't pay because they had not been made to see the importance of paying. Because they were approached with abuse, they responded with it.
Saturday night came, and Mr. Clark detained me after the other collectors had left for a few words of hearty praise. "I knew you'd be a top man," he declared. "You keep this up and you'll be making more dough than your college professors."
"Oh, well," I smirked, my head swelling three sizes, "I don't expect to make 'that' much."
"You'll do fine. You've got the size—that's the important thing. Throw a good enough scare into these bastards to begin with and you can take it easy from then on."
"Well," I hesitated, uncomfortably. Somehow the fact had evaded me that the store's four collectors and Clark as well were all very large men. "I don't think size has much to do with it, Mr. Clark. I mean—"
"Maybe not," he shrugged. "We always hire 'em big, but I suppose there are plenty of tough little guys. They wouldn't have the psychological advantage, of course, but—"
"I don't mean that," I said. And I went on to tell him what I did mean. That the customers should be treated with kindness—firmly but kindly. Treat them as oneself would like to be treated if in the same circumstances.
Clark stared at me blankly as I expounded my theory. Then, at last, his broad flatnosed face puckered in a grin, and he guffawed. "By God!" He slapped his hand on the counter. "You really had me going there for a minute, Jim!...Treat 'em nice, huh? Be kind to 'em. I think I'll pull that one on the home office!"
"Well," I said, "I guess it does sound kind of funny, but—"
"What a sense of humor! What a kidder!" He burst into another round of guffaws. "Well, have a nice weekend and I'll see you Monday."
I spent the weekend working on the old car I had bought. Monday noon, still stubbornly convinced that I had solved the secret of successful collecting, I went back on the job. It was just about my last day on earth.
My first customer was an employee of a rendering plant, a place which, due to the hellish odor it exuded, was located in the outskirts of the city. Here the unfortunates of the area's animal population were brought—those that had died of old age or disease or accident. Here they were converted into hides and tallow, glue, bristles and bone.
I parked my car in the stinking,
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