GOLD FEVER Part Three. Ken Salter

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СКАЧАТЬ and sell bear’s grease hair pomade and bear’s oil was profitable after only six months on the market. We supplied the bear’s grease obtained from French trappers who hunted bear and other animals and sold meat and fowl to French restaurants like ours. The bear’s grease was sold to card sharks, gamblers and dandies and the bear’s oil was sold as a patent medicine to cure all sorts of hair problems. By manufacturing our products locally, we avoided customs duties and luxury product taxes. We were able to price our pharmacy items fifty percent cheaper than imported bear’s grease and oils and still make a handsome profit split 50/50 between the Lefebvres and us.

      In order to find similar products to manufacture, I had been running a classified ad in the French, Spanish and German language newspapers for several weeks. I claimed I was an entrepreneur with capital to invest in new products or inventions and could make sound, profitable investments for individuals desiring to invest in the local, booming economy. I asked interested parties to describe in writing their products, provide a sketch of the item and deliver it to the wholesale pharmacy near the Long Wharf where I maintained a small office and where my assistant, Gino, and the pharmacist’s sales clerk, Sophie Benson, sorted and organized for delivery letters from the French consulate.

      I was on my way to my office when Gino intercepted me. He was out of breath and hoarsely shouting for me to hurry with him back to the office. There was someone there I should definitely see. I was astonished to see outside my office a smallish man peddling a dark colored cloth in a hand cart.

      “This is the guy you want me to see?” I asked Gino perplexed. “He’s a peddler,” I said in disbelief.

      Gino was still out of breath and shaking his head. He reached into the cart and pulled out a pair of sturdy looking men’s work pants and shoved them at me. “These will be a winner,” Gino croaked. “You gotta talk to this guy.” The little guy with the cart and wide blue eyes and rumpled clothes looked puzzled at Gino’s antics.

      I took a hard look at the work pants. They looked to be made with a cloth we call serge de Nîmes — a heavy cloth made in the south of France and sometimes used for tents and canvas products. I had never seen the cloth made into clothes. Close inspection revealed good workmanship and pockets were reinforced with metal rivets. I asked the peddler if he spoke French or English.

      “I speak a little English,” he replied sheepishly with a heavy Germanic accent. “I see your ad in our German paper. You have money for products. I need money to make more pants.” He reached into his cart and pulled out 2 more pairs of work pants in different sizes. “Miners want these pants, but I no can get denim material enough to make more,” he said in halting, frustrated English.

      “Let’s go into my office and talk. Bring a couple of pairs of pants with you,” I said. Pointing to Gino, I said, “Stay here and watch the peddler’s cart while I speak with him in my office.”

      As we walked into the pharmacy and headed for my cubbyhole in the back, Sophie Benson, the salesclerk and my part-time letter sorter, gave me a whimsical look. She’d been taking in the scene on the street and gave me a look as if to say, “look what the cat has brought in from the hunt.”

      I motioned my client to take a seat and hand me the pair of work pants he was clutching as if his life depended on them. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Pierre Dubois. I put the ad in your German paper. What’s your name,” I asked extending my hand.

      “I’m called Levi Strauss,” he replied giving my hand a firm shake.

      “Tell me about your pants and why you need assistance to make more.”

      “Well, I come to San Francisco with my cloth, needles and thread. I think to make tents for miners cuz’ we read in New York winters here very bad for miners. But miners no need tents, so I try to sell to ladies, but they no want my cloth either; they want only fancy clothes made with silk, velvet and taffeta. So, I get desperate. Nobody told me life so expensive here. I buy a cart for $50 and wheel it from place to place and offer to make clothes, any clothes. I meet miners; they say we need sturdy pants. I say I can make you strong pants. They say ‘how much?’ I say $6. One miner give me $6 and I measure him with my string. I go to tailor’s shop and give him the $6. I say to tailor cut all my cloth to make pants — some big, some small. I sew the pants and sell to miners in front of stores where they buy supplies. I sell my pants but have no more cloth. I write my 2 brothers in New York to send me more cloth, but it takes too long. So, I need help to buy cloth. I have customers, but few pants to sell. More cloth and I sell lots more cuz’ miners like my pants. Even carpenters want to buy. They say make pockets stronger, so I use rivets; they like.” Strauss paused and sighed. He looked at me with pleading big eyes.

      “Why do miners prefer your work pants to what they normally wear?”

      “They say they are stronger an’ tougher than cotton or canvas pants. They say regular work pants, even boots, come apart with heavy work at the rivers. They specially like I reinforce pockets and seams with rivets to make my pants. I want to use copper rivets instead of tin ones, but I have no funds for them.”

      While Strauss spoke, I examined his work pants carefully. I had to agree that the heavy denim material was stronger and more durable than the cotton, wool and canvas pants I’d seen miners wearing while working river placers. “You said carpenters liked your pants too. What reason did they give?”

      “They have me sew extra pockets and straps to hang their tools. They say pants will last longer and not wear out so fast when they have to work on their knees,” Strauss replied eagerly.

      I was starting to get the bigger picture. These solidly riveted work pants would appeal to all sorts of workmen in addition to miners — carpenters, artisans, cowboys, etc. If made on a large enough scale and properly marketed, it could be a profitable product especially if it caught on with the thousands of miners who wore out their clothes at least twice a year. “I like your product Mr. Strauss. I have backers who would invest in your work pants to market them to miners and other workers. The normal way we operate is to establish a partnership involving key individuals to make the product as well as promoters to market it and investors providing the capital. In addition to cloth and sewing materials, we’d need a workshop to make the pants and a retail store to sell the pants. Peddling them on a cart is not an efficient way to sell your pants. I see your role as working with the retail shop, maybe to measure clients and promote the durability of the pants as their inventor. I would be the general partner coordinating the manufacturing and marketing of your work pants. We could call them ‘Levis.’ What do you think?”

      “You can do all this?” He replied bewildered. I learned later that he and his two brothers, Jacob and Willy, had struggled to make a living first in Bavaria and later in rural New York as peddlers going house to house selling needles, thread, yarn, ribbons, brass buttons and pots and pans to village wives and farm girls.

      “Yes and if the product really catches on, we’ll sell the pants in the towns near the mining camps where miners buy their provisions. There are many more miners in the placers than in San Francisco. With my postal concession for French and Chilean miners, we could sell to these miners as well as your fellow countrymen. If you are in agreement, I’ll have my attorney draw the necessary papers ready to sign tomorrow afternoon. You’d have twenty-five percent of the profits and the partnership would have the exclusive right to market your work pants. Is this agreeable?” Ball in his court.

      Levi Strauss shook his curly head in disbelief that an hour ago he was pushing his cart and tomorrow he’d be a partner in an enterprise manufacturing and marketing his work pants. As Strauss seemed to be on cloud nine, I offered him my hand to shake in agreement. He grabbed it eagerly and shook it vigorously. “Yes, yes, it’s a dream come true. I was getting desperate.”

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