The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [67]
Father-to-son talk four weeks later, at dark as customary. Clerks leaving. Fires dying. “Sit down, Leander, sit down,” he said. “I told you that if you trusted me and worked hard I’d treat you like a son, didn’t I? I never told that to anybody else. You know that, don’t you? You believe me, don’t you? Now I’m going to show you what I mean. Business practice is changing. I’m going to send a salesman on the road. I want you to be that salesman. I want you to go to New York for me, representing me. I want you to call on my customers, just as if you were my son. Take orders. Behave like a gentleman. When you go to New York I want you to realize what you’re doing. I want you to realize that J. B. Whittier is more than a business. I want you to think of the firm as if it was your mother; our mother. I want you to think of it as if this dear old lady needed money and you were going to New York to make some money for her. I want you to comport yourself and dress yourself and talk as if you were representing this dear old lady. When you order your meals and stay in a hotel I want you to spend your money as if you realized it all belonged to this little old lady.” Liberal display of the waterworks. We understood one another.
Sing of the night boats. All that writer knows. Fall River, Bangor, Portland, Cape May, Baltimore, Lake Erie, Lake Huron, Saint Louis, Memphis, New Orleans. Floating palaces. Corn-husk mattresses. Music over water. One-night card games, one-night friendships, one-night girls. All gone with dawn’s early light. First passage calm. Ocean like glass. Many lights glittering on water. Sparse lights on shore line. People watching palace drift by from porches, lawns, bridges, cupolas. Set their clocks by her. Shared cabin with stranger. Put watch, cash and checks in sock, put sock on foot. Slept on corn-husk mattress yearning for night-boat nymphs. Going to big city to make fortune for little old lady. J. B. Whittier & Co.
Checked in at Hoffman House as ordered. First customer gave order for eight hundred dollars. Second customer slightly higher. Sold five thousand dollars in three days. Wired for confirmation on last orders. Slept every night with watch, cash, etc., in sock. Returned on train, tired but happy. Went straight to office. J. B. waiting. Fell on writer’s neck. Return of prodigal. Conquering hero. Took favorite son to Parker House for dinner. Whisky, wine, fish, flesh and fowl. Later to Chardon Street fancy house. Second visit. First time with Jim Graves. Died in St. Botolphs as stated above. Baptists still singing. “Lead, Kindly Light.” Appeared to be favorite hymn.
White-haired boy. Advice sought on manufacturing, merchandising, etc. Subject of marriage finally broached. Same place, same time of day as other confidential talks. “You planning to marry, my boy,” he says, “or are you going to remain a bachelor all your life?” “I plan to marry and raise a family, sir,” I said. “Shut the door and sit down,” he said. “Have you got a young lady?” he asks. “No sir,” I said. “Well, I’ve got the young lady for you,” he said. “She lives with her parents in Cambridge. She’s a Sunday-school teacher. She’s no more than eighteen years old. Have a drink of whisky.” He walked to the keg in the corner. Took turns at the straw. Sat down again. “Man bom of woman,” he said, “hath but a short span and he is full of misery.” Waterworks beginning. Liberal