THE HAWKER

Evening Star, Issue 21881, 19 November 1934, Page 13

THE HAWKER

ROUND OF THE DOORS A MAN’S CONFESSION Among the many evils generated by economic stress and the prolonged unemployment not the'least is that of the great expansion of the profession of glorified begging euphemistically described under its more grandiose name of outdoor salesmanship, or Under its less imposing; but truer, names of canvassing, touting, haw.king, or peddling —with the difference that the modern pedlar does not push bis own wares but those of the people who employ him, says a writer in the ‘ Manchester Guardian.’

Nearly every unemployed man has tried it. The work is heartbreaking, nerve-racking, intensely and incredibly hard, disappointing, and unfair not only to the outdoor salesman -himself but to the housewife he harasses and the small shopkeeper with whom he competes. He is an outcast, a pariah, and an intolerable nuisance .to all except the firm which employs him. Knocking at the doors of workingclass houses was the first canvassing job I tried. With a easeful of articles upon which the makers were wise enough or ashamed enough not to put their names, I tramped the streets from nine in the morning until five at night, being rebuffed, bullied, well or ill received. I was soaked in rains, whipped with winds, and had to eat my meals pp a back-entry. Day after day I did this, arriving home at night utterly worn out with walking and talking, considering myself extremely lucky if I made nine shillings a week. I have sold or tried to sell, among other articles, brilliautine, shampoos, books, vaseline, wireless sets, bootlaces, tiepins,‘studs, brushes, and cheap jewellery. I have tried to sell eggs which I carried around in a basket. I had to_ describe them as “ country, newlaid ” eggs when I knew perfectly well that they were foreign, stored eggs. A MASTER OF WILES. In time .1 discovered that in order to stand the remotest chance of survival, and to make even my bare expenses, I had to become a most remarkable person, endowed with the thick skin of an elephant, and ruthlessness of a sergeant-major, the cunning of a Machiavelli, the gentleness of a Lamb, the persuasiveness of a Mark Antony, and the psychological skill of a Freud, ulus the of a minor prophet. I had to become all these things in turn, alternating my strategy and tactics of approach with each different householder. Bully, psychologist, honey-tongued, and brutal in turn, I have made my daily dreary ( rounds of foot-slogging and door-knock-ing; have persuaded ferocious-looking dockers to buy home-made apple-jelly, tempted suburban spinsters to buy books for which they had no desire or need, and bullied isolated housewives in lonely districts into buying things which they actually had in their houses. I have had ten thousand doors banged in my face, and have placed my foot menacingly between the door and the doorpost to prevent the> door being shut on me, and at the slightest suspicion of sympathy or vacillation have let loose a flood of lying eloquence—and sold my goods. I hated it, but I had to live. “NOBODY’S WORKING.” I have received an insight into the self-protective ingenuity -of housewives of all classes. In the poorer districts the cry is nearly always “ Nobody’s working here.” In the more select districts 1 was kept off by an array of “No hawkers, canvassers, or circulars ” notices; although I often ignored these, and had sometimes a cup of tea at the tradesmen’s entrance. In the semi-suburban districts I expect the curtain-peepers. Immediately upon hammering at the door of one of these houses I turn and watch the window, knowing that it is almost certain that a housewife’s face will appear behind the curfains or aspidistra. I then either depart or, if feeling bold, discreetly tap on the window and try to shame the curtain-peeper into buying something. “I’m sick of all you people calling. I’ve opened this door twenty times to-day. My hall carpet’s getting quite worn out with always running to the door to canvassers.” “We should have police protection.” “ Oh, go oway, go away, please.” “ No. No. No.’—these are some of the replies one gets.

Having failed at selling anything by any of these tactics, I use my last card, the hard luck story, and, » ™ nge,y enol, gh. It is genuine. 1 lease, madam, try it only once, please. I haven’t sold a single thing all day, and you’re the first one to give me a kind word. Ho, madam, just tins once.”

TRADING ON PITY. I batter down their feelings, trade on their pity, and depart having sold them something which 1 know is not worth what they have paid lor it. But I have sold. I have obtained money, and scarcely care. Yet often enough even this emotional rhetoric fails, and I slink off ashamed, humiliated, knowing that I have made the housewife who had to refuse me feel a heartless criminal. My latest job, upon which I am still engaged, is to go round knocking at the doors of houses in older property to try to induce their tenants to change from gas .to electric light. As usual, I receive no wage, only a small commission, the commission in this case being one shilling for every “point” (light or heating plug) obtained, the minimum permitted being five points, which makes the commission for each house obtained to be five shillings. In the last four months I have earned exactly three pounds five and an increased horror of the job. One day brought incredible luck—two houses. At the second a kindly-looking old lady listens. I sense an opportunity, bring all my batteries of persuasive eloquence into action, flatter her, praise her wall paper and her house. She capitulates, signs the form, and maybe brings me a cup of tea and a piece of cake. Thank God! I have earned ten shillings! Ten shillings! Can it be true?

But such cases are few, and weeks go .by without a single order or encouragement. Nothing is earned. My slices are wearing out, my tactics be r coming weaker, all the heart going out of me. It still goes on. “ Good morning, madam. Glorious morning. .” “ Sorry, nothing to-day.” Bang goes the door.