A faithful record of the H-week course given by the widow and disciples of Dale Carnegie

Ray Gardner May 20 1961


A faithful record of the H-week course given by the widow and disciples of Dale Carnegie

Ray Gardner May 20 1961


A faithful record of the H-week course given by the widow and disciples of Dale Carnegie

Ray Gardner

I AM A GRADUATE of a Dale Carnegie success school, having spent one night a week for fourteen weeks learning how to win friends and influence people.

At the graduation banquet of Dale Carnegie Class 37, held in the Gai Paree Supper Club, in Vancouver, I was formally presented with a diploma that “certifies that Ray Gardner has successfully completed the Dale Carnegie Course in Effective Speaking, Leadership Training, and Human Relations. In witness whereof this certificate is issued under our hands and seal this 6th day of February 1961. (Signed) Dorothy Carnegie, Harry Duffus.”

Dorothy Carnegie is the widow of the man who wrote the famous book How to Win Friends and Influence People, and Harry Duffus is the owner of a business school and sponsor of the Carnegie course in Vancouver.

I enrolled in the course last October on assignment from Maclean’s, to write about my experiences as a disciple of Carnegie, the Missourian who developed his theories on winning success and popularity into a quasi-religion.

I paid a tuition fee of a hundred and ten dollars and then, for fourteen successive Monday nights, faithfully attended classes that usually lasted four hours. During that time I listened, by rough count, to nine hundred brief speeches, many of a confessional nature, and made about thirty myself.

To win my diploma I was not required to write an examination or undergo an evaluation of any kind; all I had to do was attend at least eleven of the fourteen sessions. This, presumably, would prepare me to go out into an unfriendly world and win my fair share of friends and influence at least some people.

Until I interested myself in the course I had thought that Carnegie and his philosophy were passé and had gone the way of all fads. After all, the book that made his name a household word, How to Win Friends, was first published twenty-five years ago, in 1936, and Carnegie has been dead since 1955.

I was wrong and, as Carnegie teaches us (Rule Three of Twelve Ways to Win People to Your Way of Thinking, to be found in The Little Golden Book of Rules), “If you’re wrong, admit it quickly and emphatically.”

The truth is that the Carnegie course is probably influencing more people today than it did even when the Master was alive.

Since Carnegie originated the course in New York in 1912, there have been, roughly, 810,000 graduates and more, than a tenth of these — 88,000 — won their spurs last year.

The course got going in Canada only after the war and since then 21,400 Canadians have won diplomas. Last year, in Canada, there were 1,824 graduates. The course is offered in forty-three Canadian cities and towns from Quebec to Victoria and is even given, free, to select groups of convicts in the British Columbia Penitentiary at New Westminster. One prisoner, the Carnegie people say, was granted permission by Ottawa to remain in the pen after his sentence had expired so that he might finish the course.

My introduction to the Carnegie course came one night last October when, in response to a newspaper advertisement, I attended a public demonstration in a banquet hall of Vancouver’s Georgia Hotel.

This demonstration drew about fifty people and, the next night, a similar one attracted close to seventy-five. From these two gatherings two classes, numbering about seventy students in all, were recruited.

I slipped unobtrusively into a seat at the rear of the hall where I was partly hidden by a grand piano. A cheerful, immaculately dressed man in his early thirties sought me out, introduced himself, and shook my hand vigorously.

“Ah, ha!” he said. “Just what I did the first time: hid behind the piano. When they called me up to speak I wanted to crawl out on my hands and knees. I got up there and I couldn’t utter a word. Not a word. Well, as they say, those days are gone forever, thanks to Dale Carnegie.

“Great to see you with us!” he exclaimed, and, with a chuckle, he promised, “We’ll have you out from behind that piano in no time at all. You bet your sweet life we will.”

Beaming goodwill, two more young men greeted me in this same hearty fashion and described how the Carnegie treatment had cured them of painful personality problems. Except for their unmistakable sincerity, I might have taken them to be shills for the outfit. All three,

I learned on inquiry, were gainfully employed by banks and their service to the Carnegie cause was purely voluntary.

They were—and are—graduate assistants. Two graduate assistants, or GAs as they like to be called, are elected by each class from among its members at the conclusion of the course. They later serve, without pay, as assistants to the instructor of the next class. All the GAs I encountered astounded me by the depth of their dedication to the Carnegie creed, to which they seek converts with all the zeal of a fanatic.

A short, intense man in his early forties, with wavy, greying hair, who introduced himself as Wes Horne, a Carnegie instructor, conducted the demonstration. He began by urging us to stand and introduce ourselves to those around us. “Let’s see how many hands we can shake in the next minute,” he said. “Come on, let’s all be friendly.” Dutifully but, in most cases, rather sheepishly, we stood and shook as many hands as we could grasp in the allotted time.

Horne then launched an account of the course’s popularity. “Why did it grow?” he asked. “It grew because it was effective.” He went on, “It took a great deal of courage for you to come here tonight. You all deserve a great deal of credit. Yes, you do. This will be the turning point in your life.”

He held aloft one of Carnegie’s books, How to Stop Worrying and Start Living, and made the claim that half the CONTINUED ON PAGE 49

Now lr too, can win friends and influence people continued from page 25

It’s a Carnegie maxim that “a man’s name is to him the sweetest sound in any language”

country’s hospital beds were occupied by mental patients, the victims of worry. “The Worry Book.” he said, “will teach you how to stop worrying. It will. It really will.”

The shrill voice of a woman sounded from somewhere in the hall: “I had a gentleman tell me it stopped him from committing suicide.” Naturally, this interjection delighted Horne and he told us of a man he knew who was on the verge of killing himself when he came upon The Worry Book and thereupon decided not to stop living, but to stop worrying.

Horne then ran us through a typical Carnegie exercise. Seven at a time we were brought to the front of the hall, seated on a long table, and asked to tell a few simple facts about ourselves: our name and occupation, where we lived, and why we wanted to take the course. After this we stood with our backs to the audience while, by a show of hands, they chose the best speaker of the seven.

A prison social worker gave this reason for seeking Carnegie’s help: “I’m forever asking prisoners all about themselves. ‘What did you do?’ ‘Oh, and what happened to you then?’ You see, I have no trouble talking to them about their lives. But when I get with my friends and want to talk about myself I’m stymied. Shucks, there are times when I’d just like to say something about myself. What 1 did. What happened to me.”

A stenographer, a pretty girl in her twenties, said, “My mother took the Dale Carnegie course and ever since I’ve heard nothing but Dale Carnegie, Dale Carnegie. She says I’ve go/ to take the course.” Her story was corroborated by her fiancé, who said: “When I go to her house what do I hear? Dale Carnegie, Dale Carnegie. Nothing but Dale Carnegie.”

An earnest young man, a Carnegie graduate, had brought his wife to the demonstration. “My wife says we can’t afford to have her take the course,” he said. “I tell her we can’t afford not to let her take it. I’d gladly pay three times the price for what I got out of it. It has been the most wonderful thing in my life.”

His wife did enroll and. at the final session, when each of us spoke on “What 1 got out of the course,” she said she had successfully applied several of the winning-people - to - you r - wayof - thinking rules to persuade her husband, much against his will, to let her quit work. “I appealed to his nobler motives (this is Rule Ten),” she said, “by telling him if I didn’t have to work I’d have time to have babies and to sew buttons on his pyjamas.”

Every now and then a graduate assistant bounded to the front of the room, much as a prizefighter bounds confidently into the ring, to tell us of the change Carnegie had wrought in his or her life.

A young woman, after explaining that one of her tasks as assistant to the credit manager of a large firm was to prepare reports for the firm’s head office, said, “I was always afraid to turn in my report for fear it might be wrong. 1 trembled and worried myself sick every time. Now I never give it a second thought. Oh,

1 do thank Dale Carnegie. I shook all over the first time I came to a Dale Carnegie session, but now I want to be with his kind of people forever.”

It is a Carnegie maxim that “a man’s name is to him the sweetest and most

important sound in any language” (Six Ways to Make People Like You, Rule Three), and one aim of the course is to teach the art of remembering names. Thus a bank clerk was called upon to describe his remarkable mastery of Rule Three.

“I could never remember anyone’s name,” he said. “I simply had a poor memory for names.” But now? Now he knew the first and last names of every one of the 270 employees of the bank where he works. “As soon as I spot a

new face, I get the name,” he explained, proudly. “If a girl gets married. I find out her married name.” He had extended his research to include people he met on buses, to neighbors, to social acquaintances, until “now I have six hundred

names in my little book.” He held the book up for us to see. “Why,” he said. “I never knew I could make so many friends.” New names are jotted down on a working sheet he always carries; he transfers them to his notebook only when they have been riveted into his memory. “You might say, That chap has a remarkable memory,’ ” he said, “but, honestly, I haven’t. You could do it; you, too, could have six hundred friends.”

I made use of this when my turn came to say why I was interested in the course. “I want to remember names,” I said. “I would have taken the course long ago but I couldn’t remember Dale Carnegie’s name.” This drew a laugh and won me the prize — a paperback copy of How to Win Friends — for the best speech of the seven given by my group.

One evening about ten days later I appeared in the banquet room of a downtown restaurant to attend the first session of Dale Carnegie Class 37.

Class 37 (so numbered because it was the thirty-seventh to be held in Vancouver) had thirty-two members, five of them women. They included a department-store clerk, a breeder of prize cattle, a druggist, the owner of a sheet-metal firm, a chinchilla rancher, a blonde and comely housewife, a social worker, two professional skin-divers, a bartender, a bookkeeper, a drug salesman, and several insurance underwriters.

We were each given, without extra charge, a hard-cover copy of each of Carnegie’s three best-sellers, How to Win Friends (which has sold 5,210,000 copies), Public Speaking (1,925,000 copies) and How to Stop Worrying (960,000 copies).

Our instructor was Wes Horne. He had taken the course ten years before, then served as a graduate assistant, and, in 1957, had undergone three weeks’ training as an instructor in Seattle. His fulltime employment is as a shingle inspector in the B. C. lumber industry. “Teaching the Carnegie course is my hobby, although I am paid for it,” he told me. “It’s a thrilling experience. It’s what keeps me going. Giving the course at the penitentiary — that’s what I enjoy most. It’s voluntary work, and you sure feel good when one of those prisoners gives you a sincere and hearty handshake.”

The Carnegie course, I found, is primarily an exercise in group therapy. The shy and the timid are helped to overcome their inhibitions simply by speaking, at least twice every session for one to two minutes, to a wholly sympathetic audience. A key to the course’s success is contained in something Wes Horne said at the very first session. “We’re going to have fun,” he told us. “This is a participation course, so come on, let’s participate.”

Here is an account of how I and some of the other members of Class 37 participated:


We got acquainted by playing a Carnegie remember-the-name game. One at a time we rose, gave our full name, and then suggested some play on words or descriptive phrase that would help others remember our surname. A man named Goad asked us to think of a stick used to prod oxen and a man called Nordick became a northern detective. I was pictured digging in a garden. At times someone would be stumped and we’d all try to help out. In this way, a young woman named Mazuko was dubbed Bazooka. This done, we held a contest to see who could remember the most names. The winner got thirty right out of thirty-two. My score was twenty-nine, not bad for

someone who had arrived late because he’d forgotten the name of the restaurant where the class was to be held.


This was a repetition of the gambit we’d gone through at the demonstration; each of us told why he was taking the course. “I’m terrified when I face people,” said a businessman. “I’d like to be able to relax in a room full of strange people,” said a woman social worker. “I started to take the Dale Carnegie course ten years ago but I sneaked out of the first session when it came my turn to speak and I never went back.” said an insurance agent. (He chickened out of our course, too, after that first session.) “My company sent me because they say. I speak too slowly,” drawled a drug salesman. “You know,” he added. “I fell asleep at the demonstration.” “I don’t know how to stop talking once I start,” said the owner of a sheet-metal shop.

Wes had a word of encouragement ready to sandwich in between each speaker. “Wonderful! Wonderful!” he’d say in a sort of loud whisper. “Now didn’t Bill hold us fascinated?” We would murmur our assent. “You certainly showed a lot of courage coming here tonight, Ruth,” he observed, and we applauded.


Ted, one of our three GAs, bounded to the front of the class to lead us through this part. “Good evening, class!” he shouted. “Good evening, Ted!” we chorused in reply. “Oh,” said Ted, “we can do better than that. . . . Let’s show a little enthusiasm. Now again. . . . Good evening, class!” “Good evening, Ted!” we cried. Greetings disposed of, we each recounted, in ninety seconds, an incident, from our childhood that had “stirred our feelings and aroused our emotions.” My notes reveal that no fewer than five of my classmates chose to tell us about the time they’d narrowly escaped death from drowning and I’ve often wondered since if the national incidence of near-drownings would work out at quite so high a rate.


As I remember it, this part went this way:

In preparation we were supposed to have learned these Carnegie “memory pegs”: One-run; Tiro-zoo; Three-tree; Four-door; Five-hive; Six-sick; Sevenheaven; Eight-gate; Nine-wine; Ten-den.

Art, one of our GAs, asked us to call out, at random, the names of ten objects in the room and these he jotted down on a blackboard, numbering them in sequence: 1. piano; 2. light fixture, 3. piano bench, 4. drapes, 5. electric hot plate, and so on.

Then he turned his back to the blackboard and as we called out the numbers — 3, 9, 6, 8, 5, 2, 7, 1, 10, and 4 — he rattled off the list of objects without making a single mistake.

How did he do it?

“We associate the known with the unknown,” he explained. “We associate our memory peg, the known, with the object, the unknown. Let’s, take ‘one-run.’ Now we conjure up an absurd picture with lots of motion in it. The sillier the better. Because one is run we picture three racehorses running on a track. Our number one item was a piano so we picture a piano strapped to the back of each horse. There’s our absurd picture in motion: three racehorses running with pianos on their backs.”

There is a set picture for each number and the key to remembering it is the memory peg. Two-zoo: Monkeys playing in a zoo and throwing the object we wish to remember (in our example, a light fixture). Five-hive: A beehive, but instead of bees swarming around it there is a flight of B-29s and each plane is dropping the fifth object on our list, the electric hot plate.

This may seem a rather complex system for remembering, say, a grocery list, but that is one practical use to which Mr. Carnegie suggests it may be put.

Wes took us another step along memory lane by demonstrating how the memory pegs were used to remember the Carnegie Human Relations Rules. Here’s how it’s done:

Rule One states, “Don’t criticize, condemn, or complain.” (This, incidentally, gives a pretty fair idea of the Carnegie philosophy.) The memory peg is “onerun” and the picture shows those same three racehorses, only this time each is carrying a big placard bearing the letter C.

Rule Five is simply “Smile.” The memory peg is “five-hive” and there’s the beehive, disgorging flights of B-29s, and the B-29s are all dropping Cheshire cats and the Cheshire cats are all smiling.

The other rules we learned that night were: Give honest, sincere appreciation. Arouse in the other person an eager want. Become genuinely interested in other people. Remember that a man’s name is to him the sweetest and most important sound in any language. Be a good listener. Talk in term’s of the other man’s interests. Make the other person feel important — and do it sincerely.

We were told to select one of these rules, to jot it down on a white card that had been given us, and to live by it for the next four weeks. Then we’d tell the class how this had changed our lives.

1 chose Rule Five — “Smile” — chiefly because I couldn’t get those damned Cheshire cats out of my mind.


The “priceless secret” of learning to speak in public, says Carnegie, is to “talk about something that you have earned the right to talk about through long study and experience. Talk about something you know and know you know.”

The one subject everyone does know is himself, and so the Carnegie student is encouraged to talk about himself at almost every session. In the process, the classroom is converted into a sort of communal couch from which comes one selfrevelation after another. This soon creates a strong and sympathetic bond among the members of the class and helps to loosen even the most tightly tied tongue.

The most fascinating story told at this session, however, was not a confession but a tale of original research into the holes in manhole covers and the heels of women’s shoes.

“I was walking down Granville Street with my wife one Saturday afternoon,” Dave began his story, “when I saw a young woman who had caught the heel of her shoe in a manhole cover. She was a beautiful girl, so naturally I helped her, and 1 soon had her happily on her way.

“But this set me to wondering: what does the law say about holes in the sidewalk? How big a hole is legal? I checked with the B. C. Safety Council and they sent me to city hall. The man at city hall said the biggest hole legally allowed in a sidewalk is one three quarters of an inch in diameter. I went right down to Hastings

Street and began measuring the holes in the manhole covers on the sidewalk. I found that some measured an inch, some even an inch and three quarters.”

Dave’s search for the truth led him next to a women’s shoe store, where the proprietor informed him that the average “on the ground” size of a spiked heel is smaller than a dime.

He then held aloft a woman’s shoe to show us the dime he had glued to the bottom of the heel. “You can see,” he said, “that this heel is much larger than a dime. Yet, do you know that heel will easily fit into a three-quarter-inch hole in a manhole cover?”

In a ringing conclusion, Dave called on the women present to fight for strict observance of the hole-in-the-street bylaw.

Dave won the class vote for the best speech of the night.


This session was devoted to “How to make your talk sparkle,” but I remember it best as the night we learned our first Carnegie warm-up, The Duke of York. It went like this:

Seated we all chorus:

There was the Duke of York.

He had ten thousand men,

He marched them up the hill,

(all rise)

He marched them down again.

(all sit down)

And when they’re up, they're up,

(all rise)

And when they're down, they're down. (all sit down)

But when they’re only halfway up (all rise slightly off the chair)

They’re neither up (rise fully), nor down. (all sit down)

The trick is to repeat this again and again, increasing the tempo each time, until everyone is about ready to collapse in the aisle.


This was my Big Night, the night I denounced the fly and won the Dale Carnegie pencil for making the best speech of the session. This, then, is the story of my triumph:

I strode briskly to the front of the room and, as we were instructed to do, stood off to one side and then, with emphatic gestures, recited a Carnegie favorite, “I know men in the ranks.”

“I know men in the ranks,” 1 declaimed, “who are going to stay in the ranks. Why? I’ll tell you why—simply because they haven’t the ability to get things done.”

(A little Cockney in our class almost drove the instructor to distraction by botching — deliberately, I think — his recital. “I know men in the ranks who are going to get out of the ranks,” he began. “No, no, who are going to stay in the ranks!” the instructor corrected him. He began again: “I know men in the ranks who are going to stay in the ranks. Why? I’ll tell you why — simply because they have the ability to get things done.” “No, no, because they haven’t—have not—the ability to get things done,” the instructor screamed.)

I did my “men in the ranks” with fervor and then stepped quickly to a small table set at front, centre, accepted a club made of tightly rolled newspapers from our instructor, and launched into my oneminute impromptu talk on “anything that makes you excited and angry.” I spoke ill of the fly, the common house fly.

“I hate the fly!” I cried, and pounded the table with my club.

Three of my classmates, seated directly in front of me, began to boo, jeer, and try to shout me down, as they were supposed to do.

“I despise the fly!” I yelled and I struck the table another crashing blow.

“The fly is dirty! Filthy! Despicable!” I shouted, my voice rising to an almost hysterical pitch, and the table shuddered under three more mighty blows.

“Friends,” I said, “you have all heard the song about the old lady who swallow-

ed a fly and perhaps she’ll die. Well, I am here tonight to tell you she did die.”

“The fly is a murderer! A killer!” my denunciation rang out. (Boos, jeers, and catcalls from the three hecklers.)

"In conclusion, my friends,” I shouted, “I say. ‘Fie on the fly!’ ” I said it with such force I blew my lower plate halfway out of my mouth but, as though it were attached to an elastic band, it snapped back in again.

There was, if I may say so, a tremendous burst of applause as I sat down and, in the midst of it, a woman leaned over

and said, “If you’d stick a piece of adhesive tape on the inside of your plate it wouldn’t pop out like that.”


Two at a time we stood at the front of the class and spoke for twenty seconds, simultaneously and as loud as we could, on different subjects. While I was exhorting the class to work for the banning of the hydrogen bomb, my partner was vigorously denouncing the British Columbia liquor laws. This was supposed to develop force and spontaneity in our speaking.

We learned a new warm-up, “Mary had a little lamb.” Wc recited this children’s verse first in a whisper, then while pretending to cry, and then in anger, and, finally, we acted it out in pantomime. My performance was voted one of the best, but I lost in a runoff to a departmentstore appliance salesman, a big and rugged man who made a wonderfully amusing picture as he cried his way through the nursery rhyme.


Wes had ended the last session by teaching us to chant, “Act enthusiastic and you’ll be enthusiastic! Be enthusiastic and you’ll act enthusiastic!” and exhorting us to use “five times your usual amount of enthusiasm at home, at work, everywhere, and then tell us, at Session Eight, what the magic of enthusiasm did for you.”

This is what it did for some of the enthusiasts:

Harry, a prison social worker, said, “I’ve always acted five times as enthusiastically as most people and so now I’ve been acting ten times as enthusiastically. Boy, does it work wonders! It snowballs!” He had so enthused two of the prison’s most neurotic inmates that the change in their attitude amazed the staff psychiatrist. He told us about an outstanding social worker who had persistently declined offers to join the prison staff because the proposed salary was not satisfactory. “Our director asked me to talk with him,” said Harry. “Boy, did I make him enthusiastic! He’s joining our staff at $100 a month less than he makes now.”

Reg, the appliance salesman, told us he had not made one sale in three weeks until the morning he exploded in a burst of enthusiasm and then he sold a $400 deepfreeze and three refrigerators, two of them to one woman.

Joan, a housewife, said, “I thought I had a health problem until I began to act enthusiastically. Now I’m off my thyroid pills, I can get up in the morning, I don’t need my afternoon nap, and my home life has suddenly become very happy.”

“My wife is a bear to get up in the morning,” said Bill, a dermatologist. “Even the thought of it sends her to bed grouchy. Of course she never does get up in the morning. I get up, change the baby, and make my own breakfast, and when I phone her at noon she’s still in bed. Well, friends, my enthusiasm is contagious. This morning, believe it or not, she did get up and had a cup of coffee with me, before she went back to bed.”


I become so bogged down in the complexities of the Carnegie system for remembering a man’s name (example: “Warlawski—Dress Mr. Warlawski in a uniform. Under his arm he has a law book and he is wearing one ski—war-lawski”) that I resolved to call Mr. Warlawski “Joe.”

We learned how to remember some more Human Relations Rules and the one I liked was Rule Twenty, “Dramatize your ideas.” The memory peg is twenty-plenty and the picture: “We see a huge cornucopia—a horn of plenty. It is dark inside. A little girl wanders into it and her grandmother comes seeking her. The little girl cries, ‘Drama, tize in here.’ ”


No lectures are given on how to conquer worry during the Carnegie course; the student is expected to study The Worry Book, apply its rules and obey its strictures, and then tell the class of the results achieved. In some instances, these were remarkable.

Take the case of Peter, a forty-yearold office worker. He began the course an overwrought and extremely nervous man, lacking even a shred of self-confidence. By Session Ten, he had been transformed into a ball of fire, seething with enthusiasm and brimming with confidence. This is his story as he told it to us:

“I used to worry about everything. The tragedies in my life made me a worrier. I had headaches. I was ill. I took pills. At work they used to look upon me as the man who always muddled through. ‘Poor old Peter.’ My merit rating always said the same thing: ‘Lacks confidence.’ Life really was so miserable it was hardly worth living.

“How grateful I am to Dale Carnegie. Now, even if I tried, I couldn’t worry. I’m no longer sick. I no longer take pills. At work I hold them in suspense, in the palm of my hand, as I tell them about this wonderful course. They look up to me. I’m a happy man. I’ve found a new way of life. I love you, my audience, because you are the first audience I ever had.”

We elected Peter a graduate assistant. CRASHING THROUGH

This was the night the inhibitions really bit the dust. For instance, each of us took both parts in acting out this brief sketch:

Scene is a saloon just after closing time. A little girl is swinging on the saloon doors and a bartender is mopping the floor.

Bartender (gruffly): Get off those

swinging doors!

Child (sweetly): I’m waiting for my Pappa.

Bartender: There’s no one here but that drunken sailor.

Child: That’s my Pappa.

This and several similar exercises (I had to kneel before a woman and tell her, “I could just squeeze you to death”) were supposed to help us overcome “that great enemy of effective speaking — self-consciousness.”

I can think of nothing memorable about Sessions Twelve and Thirteen except, perhaps, Harry and his accordion. Harry had always wanted to play the accordion but he’d never done anything about it, he told us. “Then one day, on the bus, I did what we are supposed to do: I engaged another passenger in conversation, and, what do you know, he sold me a course on how to play the accordion.” Harry played us a few notes on the accordion and sat down amid thunderous applause.


We were addressed at the beginning of this session by a man who took the Carnegie course from the Master himself — Mr. Wall Angus, of Victoria, who

holds the Carnegie franchise for Western Canada. Angus is a short, rather stocky man, neatly dressed and serious.

“Congratulations on having had the vision and courage to take this course,” he said. "I venture to say there arc thousands who need this type of adult education and yet it is left to this small group to do something about it. It does take courage and conviction.”

At another point he said. “Dale Carnegie said it is Christ-like work and I believe it is.”

Several weeks later I interviewed Angus and 1 asked him why he believed Carnegie’s work was Christ-like.

“That’s what Dale always used to say.” lie replied. “Christ’s mission was helping people, and Dale always felt his course was comparable to the work of Christ in that it helped people.”

After Angus had spoken to us, we each gave a two-minute talk on how we had used one of the Carnegie rules for win-

ning friends and influencing people since we had first studied them.

By far the most enthusiastic report was given by Hunter, a young underwriter of machinery insurance who had applied Rule Eight. “Talk in terms of the other man’s interests.”

“By using this rule,” he said, “I made a tremendous deal for my firm, one we’d been trying to make, without success, for many years. That rule is now deep inside of'me. What this course is doing for me is fantastic. It’s miraculous. I can’t believe it myself.”

From then on, we were to follow Hunter as he went from triumph to triumph in the machinery insurance business. He had become the most popular and successful member of the class; he won three speaking awards, and was elected a graduate assistant and class president.

Our Cockney had also scored a triumph by using one of the human relations rules.

“I had a row with a man at work, a fat slob,” he told us. “When I got home and had my tea, I began to think of my rule—I don’t remember which one—and so I went to his home and apologized.”

Wes, our instructor, was delighted. “You made a friend! You made a friend,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I did,” said the Cockney, “but I hate him!” ^