chapter10.1

Shortly after the close of World War I, I learned an invaluable lesson one night in London.

I was manager at the time for Sir Ross Smith.

During the war, Sir Ross had been the Australian ace out in Palestine.

And shortly after peace was declared, he astonished the world by flying halfway around it in thirty days.

No such feat had ever been attempted before.

It created a tremendous sensation.

The Australian government awarded him fifty thousand dollars; the King of England knighted him; and, for a while, he was the most talked-about man under the Union Jack.

I was attending a banquet one night given in Sir Ross's honor;

and during the dinner, the man sitting next to me told a humorous story which hinged on the quotation "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."

The raconteur mentioned that the quotation was from the Bible.

He was wrong.

I knew that, I knew it positively.

There couldn't be the slightest doubt about it.

And so, to get a feeling of importance and display my superiority, I appointed myself as an unsolicited and unwelcome committee of one to correct him.

He stuck to his guns.

What? From Shakespeare? Impossible! Absurd!

That quotation was from the Bible. And he knew it.

The storyteller was sitting on my right; and Frank Gammond, an old friend of mine, was seated at my left.

Mr. Gammond had devoted years to the study of Shakespeare, so the storyteller and I agreed to submit the question to Mr. Gammond.

Mr. Gammond listened, kicked me under the table, and then said: "Dale, you are wrong.

The gentleman is right. It is from the Bible."

On our way home that night, I said to Mr. Gammond: "Frank, you knew that quotation was from Shakespeare,"

"Yes, of course," he replied, "Hamlet, Act Five, Scene Two.

But we were guests at a festive occasion, my dear Dale.

Why prove to a man he is wrong?

Is that going to make him like you?

Why not let him save his face?

He didn't ask for your opinion. He didn't want it. Why argue with him? Always avoid the acute angle."

The man who said that taught me a lesson I'll never forget.

I not only had made the storyteller uncomfortable, but had put my friend in an embarrassing situation.

How much better it would have been had I not become argumentative.

It was a sorely needed lesson because I had been an inveterate arguer.

During my youth, I had argued with my brother about everything under the Milky Way.

When I went to college, I studied logic and argumentation and went in for debating contests.

Later, I taught debating and argumentation in New York; and once, I am ashamed to admit, I planned to write a book on the subject.

Since then, I have listened to, engaged in, and watched the effect of thousands of arguments.

As a result of all this, I have come to the conclusion that there is only one way under high heaven to get the best of an argument—and that is to avoid it.

Avoid it as you would avoid rattlesnakes and earthquakes.

Nine times out of ten, an argument ends with each of the contestants more firmly convinced than ever that he is absolutely right.

You can't win an argument.

You can't because if you lose it, you lose it; and if you win it, you lose it.

Why? Well, suppose you triumph over the other man and shoot his argument full of holes and prove that he is non compos mentis.

Then what? You will feel fine. But what about him?

You have made him feel inferior.

You have hurt his pride.

He will resent your triumph.

And—A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.

Years ago Patrick J. O'Haire joined one of my classes.

He had had little education, and how he loved a scrap!

He had once been a chauffeur, and he came to me because he had been trying, without much success, to sell trucks.

A little questioning brought out the fact that he was continually scrapping with and antagonizing the very people he was trying to do business with.

If a prospect said anything derogatory about the trucks he was selling, Pat saw red and was right at the customer's throat.

Pat won a lot of arguments in those days.

As he said to me afterward, "I often walked out of an office saying: 'I told that bird something.'

Sure I had told him something, but I hadn't sold him anything."

My first problem was not to teach Patrick J. O'Haire to talk.

My immediate task was to train him to refrain from talking and to avoid verbal fights.

Mr. O'Haire became one of the star salesmen for the White Motor Company in New York.

How did he do it?

Here is his story in his own words:

"If I walk into a buyer's office now and he says: 'What? A White truck? They're no good!

I wouldn't take one if you gave it to me.

I'm going to buy the Whose-It truck,' I say, 'The Whose-It is a good truck.

If you buy the Whose-It, you'll never make a mistake.

The Whose-Its are made by a fine company and sold by good people.'

"He is speechless then.

There is no room for an argument.

If he says the Whose-It is best and I say sure it is, he has to stop.

He can't keep on all afternoon saying, 'It's the best' when I'm agreeing with him.

We then get off the subject of Whose-It and I begin to talk about the good points of the White truck.

"There was a time when a remark like his first one would have made me see scarlet and red and orange.

I would start arguing against the Whose-It; and the more I argued against it, the more my prospect argued in favor of it; and the more he argued, the more he sold himself on my competitor's product.

"As I look back now I wonder how I was ever able to sell anything.

I lost years of my life in scrapping and arguing.

I keep my mouth shut now. It pays."