e
did not make friends with the genial traveling salesmen who breezed in,
slapped him on the back, offered him a cigar, inquired after his health,
opened their sample cases and flirted with the girl clerks, all in a
breath. He was a man who talked little, listened little, learned little.
He had never got the trick of turning his money over quickly--that trick
so necessary to the success of the small-town business.

So it was that, in the year preceding Ferdinand Brandeis' death, there
came often to the store a certain grim visitor. Herman Walthers, cashier
of the First National Bank of Winnebago, was a kindly-enough, shrewd,
small-town banker, but to Ferdinand Brandeis and his wife his visits,
growing more and more frequent, typified all that was frightful,
presaged misery and despair. He would drop in on a bright summer
morning, perhaps, with a cheerful greeting. He would stand for a moment
at the front of the store, balancing airily from toe to heel, and
glancing about from shelf to bin and back again in a large, speculative
way. Then he would begin to walk slowly and ruminatively about, his
shrewd little German eyes appraising the stock. He would hum a little
absent-minded tune as he walked, up one aisle and down the next (there
were only two), picking up a piece of china there, turning it over to
look at its stamp, holding it up to the light, tapping it a bit with his
knuckles, and putting it down carefully before going musically on down
the aisle to the water sets, the lamps, the stockings, the hardware, the
toys. And so, his hands behind his back, still humming, out the swinging
screen door and into the sunshine of Elm Street, leaving gloom and fear
behind him.

One year after Molly Brandeis took hold, Herman Walthers' visits ceased,
and in two years he used to rise to greet her from his little cubbyhole
when she came into the bank.

Which brings us to the plush photograph album. The plush photograph
album is a concrete example of what makes business failure and success.
More than that, its brief history presents a complete characterization
of Ferdinand and Molly Brandeis.

Ten years before, Ferdinand Brandeis had bought a large bill of
Christmas fancy-goods--celluloid toilette sets, leather collar boxes,
velvet glove cases. Among the lot was a photograph album in the shape of
a huge acorn done in lightning-struck plush. It was a hideous thing, and
expensive. It stood on a brass stand, and its leaves were edge