"First we must send some telegrams of congratulation," said Mr. Adams. The Western Union telegraph office was located in a small store divided into two halves by a wide oak stand, behind which sat a young man with a pencil behind his ear. At the entrance to the bureau waited two boy bicyclists, in leggings, caps, and tunics, with shoulder straps and bright buttons. It was their duty to deliver telegrams to various addresses. The bicycles, with broad handle-bars and thick tyres, were leaning against the street lamp-posts. The boys were proud of their uniforms and carried themselves importantly, yet they remained children and passed their time in the most carefree fashion. Inside the handle-bars of their bicycles they placed a firecracker, lighted it, and, running off to the door, watched the passers-by jump as soon as they came near the bicycles and heard a shot explode right over their very ears. When the shot was especially loud and the passer-by jumped with particular nervousness, the boys ran into the office and, choking with laughter, looked out into the street, while the young man with the pencil behind his ear waved a reproving finger at them. Then the messenger boys would get into a fight with a company of ordinary youngsters without leggings, without shoulder straps, and without bicycles. The warring sides attacked each other with firecrackers which resounded deafeningly.

The young man accepted our telegrams, pulled the pencil from behind his ear, and, quickly counting the words, said: "Two dollars and eighty cents." We pulled out our money.

"This telegram," said the young man, "will be delivered in Moscow today. But maybe you would like to have it delivered tomorrow morning? This is a telegram of congratulation, and I think the person you are addressing it to will be just as well satisfied if he receives it in the morning."

We agreed with that proposal.

"In that case, the price will be different."

The young man took a piece of paper, made a calculation, and said:

"It will cost you, all told, two dollars and ten cents."

Seventy cents of economy! We began to like the young man.

"But perhaps, gentlemen, you would rather send the telegram some other way. We have a special rate for telegraph letters. Such a telegram will not come much later and will cost you a dollar and a half, and besides, you have the right to add eight more words."

We spent nearly an hour at the Western Union Office. The young man scribbled figures over several sheets of paper, consulted information books, and finally saved another ten cents for us.

He behaved like a kind and cautious uncle who gives his light-minded nephews lessons in how to live. He was more concerned about our pocket-book than we were ourselves. On New Year's Eve, when one longs especially for home, and the job is especially trying, this clerk seemed more than ideally patient with his clients. He seemed a true friend, whose duty was not only to serve us but to protect us, to save us from vital errors.

"Seriously, gentlemen," Mr. Adams said to us, "you have travelled a lot through America and must understand the nature of American service. Ten years ago I made a round-the-world trip and went to a certain tourist bureau to get my ticket. My itinerary was very complicated. It came out too expensive. They sat with me in that bureau all through the day and finally, with the aid of some complicated railway combinations, they economized a hundred dollars for me. A whole hundred dollars! A hundred dollars is big money. Yes, yes. I ask you not to forget that the bureau receives a certain percentage from a deal and that actually, having made my ticket cheaper, it lessened its own earnings. Therein lies the cardinal principle of American service! The bureau earned less on me than it could have earned, but the next time I will unfailingly come to them and they will again earn a little on me. You understand it, gentlemen ? Less, but more often! That is exactly what is happening here in the Western Union telegraph office. Truly, you simply do not understand, you do not want to understand the nature of American service!"

But Mr. Adams was mistaken. We had long ago understood the nature of American service. And if we admired the work of the young man with a pencil behind his ear, it was not because it seemed an exception to us, but because it confirmed the rule.

Throughout our journey, in one way or another, every day we used that service and we learned to prize it highly, although at times it made itself known in scarcely noticeable details.

On one occasion, in Charleston, South Carolina, we sat down in an empty street car which went across the main street with a thunder peculiar to this antiquated form of transportation. The motorman, who at the same time performed also the duties of the conductor, gave us our tickets.

"Ten cents a ticket," said he. "But if you buy four tickets at once there is a rebate. It costs you seven cents apiece, do you understand? Seven cents apiece. Twenty-eight cents all told. Twelve cents of economy! You understand? Only seven cents a ticket!"

All the way down he turned around, showing us his seven fingers, as if we were deaf, and shouting:

"Seven cents. Understand! Seven cents a ticket!"

It was a pleasure to him to give us a rebate, to give us service.

We have become accustomed to having our laundry not only washed but also mended, and should we forget our cuff-links in the sleeves of a soiled shirt, they will be attached to the clean laundry in a special envelope, on which will be printed the advertisement of the laundry. We stopped noticing that in restaurants, cafes, and drug-stores there were pieces of ice in the glasses of water; that at petrol stations free information and road maps are given; while in museums catalogues and prospectuses are given free. Service is best in so far as it becomes as necessary and as unnoticeable as air.

In a New York department store called Macy's, behind the backs of the clerks hang placards addressed to the purchasers: "We are here to serve you!"

To store service belongs likewise the classical American adage: "The customer is always right."

Insurance companies, when their interests coincide with the interests of the insured client, perform wonders of service. For a small fee they give medical service to a man insured for life, since it does not pay them to have the man die. The man, on the other hand, wants very much to live and, getting well, he proclaims the fame of insurance service.

In America there is an interesting trade enterprise called "mail-order house." As a matter of fact, such establishments are known also in Europe, but they are not successful there and frequently go into bankruptcy. This is trade by mail. Here everything is built on service. Should the service be bad, neither the quality of the goods nor the sumptuous office of the head of the enterprise will do any good. A mailorder house serves principally farmers. The distinctiveness of such an establishment lies in the fact that everything, from a pin to house furnishings, is ordered by catalogue. The success of this business is built on the fact that any order is filled within twenty-four hours and not a second more, irrespective of what is ordered, whether it is a hundred cigarettes or a grand piano, and irrespective of where the order must be delivered, whether on Fifth Avenue or to a small house in the state of Dakota. If the thing is not to your liking, it can be sent back to the mail-order house and the purchase money is refunded, except for a small deduction for postage.

When an American finds that he has been well served by some worker or government official, he will write that very day a letter to the corporation or to the department, saying in his letter: "At such and such a time and in such and such a place I was splendidly served by Mr. So-and-so. Allow me to congratulate you on having such a fine employee." And such letters are not lost. The good worker or official is rewarded with promotion. Americans well understand that in order to have good service it is important to have more than just a "complaint book." This does not deter them from writing letters about bad service.