The Reed He Bought Himself

Dear friend,

The riddle first, as the tradition demands. Back in the old town, two thatchers were asked to re-coat the same roof, and both named the same figure for the labour.

Two thatchers in one town, the same legget and the same hazel.
Both worked a square for the same money, and both worked it well.
One let the householder buy her own reed from the dealer at the quay.
One bought the reed himself and put it on his own bill.
The second man's estimate was the dearer, and his roof outlasted him.
Which of them was paid for his trade, and which only for his hands?

Hold your answer. Story time.

The Story

Two thatchers, in a town I have never named. Both could dress a ridge you might set a spirit level against, both charged nine shillings a square, and neither was a fool nor a rogue, which is the only sort of story worth telling. The roof between them was a farmhouse on the low road, forty squares of water reed, stripped to the battens for the first time in thirty years, and the farmer's wife held the purse.

The first thatcher told her, kindly and in good faith, that she could save a pound or two by buying the reed herself. He gave her the name of a dealer at the quay, said what a bundle ought to cost, and charged for his hands and nothing more. She thought him honest and she was right.

She bought two hundred and forty bundles at a keen price. They came up the lane in an uncovered cart. It was short reed, much of it under four feet, butts of two seasons mixed through it, every fifth bundle heavy in the hand with the weight that means cut wet and stacked wet.

The thatcher stood in that yard a long while. He could not send the load back, having not bought it, and he could not call it poor without telling her she had been had on his own instruction. So he did what a decent man does. Two days of his own time went on sorting it, and he worked the thin patches as well as thin patches can be worked.

The roof looked handsome in September. By the fifth winter the south slope had gone soft and moss had taken the upper courses, and the farmer's wife, fair-minded as she was, told four people on that road who had thatched it.

The second thatcher, on a roof a mile off, did it the other way. He bought his reed from a grower he had used eleven years, went to the stack in the spring and broke bundles across his knee. One load in six he refused, and the grower expected it. The reed stood a season in his yard under cover, and went on his bill as reed, delivered, sorted and stood behind, at a third above the quay price.

His estimate was four pounds dearer. He explained the difference in two sentences and got the work, because the woman reading it understood she was not buying bundles but a dry bedroom.

The Lesson, Since You've Earned It

The goods that pass through your hands are a part of your trade, not a courtesy you extend to your customer, and the part of your trade you charge nothing for is the part you pay for yourself. Passing materials on at cost feels like generosity. It is a transfer, and you are making it.

Consider what the first thatcher gave away. Not a pound or two of margin on reed. He gave away the one part of that purchase his customer could not perform, which was the knowing. He could tell a four-foot bundle from a six at a glance, a wet butt by its weight, and thirty years of other men's roofs told him which grower cuts late. That is the dearest thing in the load, and he priced it at nothing because it did not look like work. Judgement cannot be seen sitting in a cart.

The goods carry your money as well as your eye. You pay the dealer in April and are paid in September, so a stack of reed in your yard is your own money standing still with the weather on it, and I have written before about the days between the work and the money. Add the ordering, the day lost waiting on a cart, the sorting, the storing and the load refused. None of those hours appear on any estimate in your trade, and all happen in your week.

Then comes the part that decides your reputation. Whoever buys the material owns the fault in law, but you own it in the town. A customer who buys her own goods on your advice has not taken the risk off you, she has taken your authority away and left the risk where it was. You cannot reject what you did not buy, nor replace it, nor say a word against it without insulting whoever wrote the cheque. Material and responsibility belong in one pair of hands, and the half you keep when they come apart is the half with your name on it.

Two cautions. The first is that a margin on goods must be openly a margin and never a cost pretended. A customer can learn the trade price in four minutes, and a man found out in one small figure is suspected in every other. Price the goods as supply, sorted and stood behind, and say so, or give one price for the finished work and let it be judged whole, remembering what a price broken into parts invites. The second caution is for the customer who insists on buying her own. Say yes, on three written conditions: your labour at a higher rate, sorting another man's bundles being work; what is unfit set aside at her cost; and no promise beyond the laying. Most hand the buying back.

Three questions, and the first you can answer before noon tomorrow:

1. What am I passing on at cost, and when did I decide to? Nearly always nobody decided. It began as a kindness in a lean year, became the custom of the house, and has been shaving your year since.
2. What did the goods on my last job really cost me? Take the dealer's bill and add the hours: ordering, chasing, fetching, sorting, storing, waiting. An honest figure on those is the size of your supply line, usually a fifth to a half above the bill.
3. Where did the material on my last complaint come from? If the customer bought it, you have found a hole in your trade that has nothing to do with your skill, and it will cost you work until you shut it.

The Answer to the Riddle

Which of them was paid for his trade, and which only for his hands?

The first man was paid for his hands. He sold nine shillings a square and gave away the thirty years that told him which reed belongs above a bedroom, in the form of a dealer's name scribbled down in a farmyard. The second was paid for his trade, because the reed on his bill carried his eye, his refusal of one load in six and his promise. He was dearer by four pounds and cheaper by a roof.

The verse:

The bundle costs what bundles cost,
The knowing costs far more.
Buy it yourself and charge for both,
Or carry it as before.

Until next time. Go and take the last job you finished, add up the hours you spent on goods you charged at cost, and put that figure on your next estimate as supply.

P.S. There is a worse consequence than a thin year, and it arrives quietly. A trade that earns nothing on its materials begins, with no dishonesty intended, to specify fewer of them. One course less, a lighter batten, three spars where four were wanted, the material being the only part of the job that costs it money and returns none. Your margin on goods is what keeps you willing to use enough of them.

Also in the archive: The Second Column, The Millwright's Two Pounds and Twopence and Half a Mile.