e
bad habits of the _mediocre fellows who slacken their efforts after each
success_, and who need the spur of necessity to make them do their
utmost.

When a good salesman has booked an order, and has taken pains to make a
fine last impression on his customer, he does not go to his hotel and
play Kelly pool, or otherwise spend the rest of the day just loafing
around. Only the poor salesman celebrates in such a way; _thereby
showing that his successes are so rare he is not used to them_.

[Sidenote: Starting After The Next Chance]

The good salesman looks at his watch the moment he is out of his
customer's sight. He makes a swift calculation of the time it will take
him to reach and sell the next man on his list. If he has no other
prospect nearby, he starts looking for one that minute. His keen eyes
catch every name on the business signs he passes. _His imaginative mind
is planning how he can use the order he just has closed, to influence
some other buyer to make a contract._ If there are no additional
customers for his line in the town, he sprints to the station to catch
the first train up the road. _He does not waste a minute getting to his
next selling opportunity_.

[Sidenote: Pepper and Poppies]

Some pretty good salesmen never win the grand quota prize in a sales
contest _because they take so much time out for celebrating the big
orders they close_. If they land a fine contract in the morning, they
don't try to do much selling that afternoon. The prize-winning salesman,
too, is delighted to secure a big order. But he doesn't say to himself,
"That will put me 'way ahead on the sales record for today." Instead he
grins and thinks, "This is _my day_. I'm going to fatten up my batting
average while I'm going good." _Success is pepper to him, not the poppy
drug that slackens energy._

[Sidenote: Continual Accumulation]

You have worked hard to get the chance you now have. You have paid for
it with your best efforts. _It represents an accumulation of your
salesmanship._ The good job or the promotion you have gained is like a
savings account. Let us compare it with the first hundred dollars a
thrifty man puts into the bank for a rainy day. Would he celebrate the
accumulation of that moderate amount of money, the first evidence of his
ability to save, by quitting the practice of spending less than his
earnings? Would he then say to himself, "I am now successful as a
saver"? Would he stop putting a few dollars in