by Edgar Guest
The salesman saw his shabby clothes and eyed him head to toe;
so rough a looking man, thought he, could not be good to know;
and since he sold expensive cars, which only rich men buy,
to sell to the ragged-looking man he did not even try.
The stranger walked among the cars and looked the models o’er,
the youthful salesman passed him by a dozen times or more;
not once he paused to talk to him; he scorned the proffered smile
and looked about for richer men who might be more worth while.
The manager came out at last and saw the shabby man.
His hand went out in welcome as he shouted, “Hello, Dan!”
“Hello, Bill,” said the shabby man. “My daughter wants a car
and I’ve been noseying around to see how good they are.
Send up the red one over there; she likes to cut a dash.”
And reaching in his wallet he drew out the price in cash.
“My women wear the style for me. You know my ways are quaint.
My word,” said he, “I think that boy has fallen in a faint!”
They brought the youthful salesman to, and sent him home to rest.
“Don’t ever judge a man,” said they, “by how he may be dressed.
You lost a good cash customer, but write this lesson down:
‘Not all the worth while people strut in worsted ‘round the town.’ ”
From his book The Light of Faith
© 1926 by The Reilly & Lee Co.