To break the worry habit before it breaks you， Rule 4 is：
Co-operate with the inevitable.
Would you like to know how to make money on the StockExchange？ Well， so would a million other people—and if I knewthe answer， this book would sell for a fabulous price. However，there’s one good idea that some successful operators use. Thisstory was told to me by Charles Roberts， an investment counselorwith offices at 17 East 42nd Street， New York.
“I originally came up to New York from Texas with twentythousand dollars which my friends had given me to invest inthe stock market，” Charles Roberts told me. “I thought，” hecontinued， “that I knew the ropes in the stock market； but I lostevery cent. True， I made a lot of profit on some deals； but I endedup by losing everything.
“I did not mind so much losing my own money，” Mr. Robertsexplained， “but I felt terrible about having lost my friends’ money，even though they could well afford it. I dreaded facing them againafter our venture had turned out so unfortunately， but， to myastonishment， they not only were good sports about it， but provedto be incurable optimists.
“I knew I had been trading on a hit-or-miss basis and dependinglargely on luck and other people’s opinions. As H. I. Phillips said， Ihad been ‘playing the stock market by ear’.
“I began to think over my mistakes and I determined thatbefore I went back into the market again， I would try to find outwhat it was all about. So I sought out and became acquaintedwith one of the most successful speculators who ever lived：
Burton S. Castles. I believed I could learn a great deal from himbecause he had long enjoyed the reputation of being successfulyear after year and I knew that such a career was not the result ofmere chance or luck.
“He asked me a few questions about how I had traded before andthen told me what I believe is the most important principle in trading.
He said： ‘I put a stop-loss order on every market commitment I make.
If I buy a stock at， say， fifty dollars a share， I immediately place astop-loss order on it at fortyfive.’ that means that when and if thestock should decline as much as five points below its cost， it wouldbe sold automatically， thereby， limiting the loss to five points.
“‘If your commitments are intelligently made in the first place，’
the old master continued， ‘your profits will average ten， twentyfive，or even fifty points. Consequently， by limiting your losses tofive points， you can be wrong more than half of the time and stillmake plenty of money？’
“I adopted that principle immediately and have used it eversince. It has saved my clients and me many thousands of dollars.
“After a while I realised that the stop-loss principle couldbe used in other ways besides in the stock market. I began toplace a stop-loss order on any and every kind of annoyance andresentment that came to me. It has worked like magic.
“For example， I often have a luncheon date with a friend whois rarely on time. In the old days， he used to keep me stewingaround for half my lunch hour before he showed up. Finally， Itold him about my stop-loss orders on my worries. I said： ‘Bill，my stop-loss order on waiting for you is exactly ten minutes. Ifyou arrive more than ten minutes late， our luncheon engagementwill be sold down the river—and I’ll be gone.’ ”
Man alive！ How I wish I had had the sense， years ago， to putstop-loss orders on my impatience， on my temper， on my desire for self-justification， on my regrets， and on all my mental andemotional strains. Why didn’t I have the horse sense to size upeach situation that threatened to destroy my peace of mind andsay to myself： “See here， Dale Carnegie， this situation is worthjust so much fussing about and no more”？... Why didn’t I？
However， I must give myself credit for a little sense on oneoccasion， at least. And it was a serious occasion， too—a crisisin my life—a crisis when I stood watching my dreams and myplans for the future and the work of years vanish into thin air. Ithappened like this.
In my early thirties， I had decided to spend my life writingnovels. I was going to be a second Frank Norris or Jack Londonor Thomas Hardy. I was so in earnest that I spent two yearsin Europe—where I would live cheaply with dollars during theperiod of wild， printing-press money that followed the FirstWorld War. I spent two years there， writing my magnum opus.
I called it The Blizzard. The title was a natural， for the receptionit got among publishers was as cold as any blizzard that everhowled across the plains of the Dakotas. When my literary agenttold me it was worthless， that I had no gift， no talent， for fiction，my heart almost stopped. I left his office in a daze. I couldn’t havebeen more stunned if he had hit me across the head with a club. Iwas stupefied. I realised that I was standing at the crossroads oflife， and had to make a tremendous decision. What should I do？
Which way should I turn？ Weeks passed before I came out of thedaze. At that time， I had never heard of the phrase “put a stoplossorder on your worries”. But as I look back now， I can seethat I did just that. I wrote off my two years of sweating over thatnovel for just what they were worth—a noble experiment—andwent forward from there. I returned to my work of organising andteaching adult-education classes， and wrote biographies in my spare time—biographies and non-fiction books such as the oneyou are reading now.
Am I glad now that I made that decision？ Glad？ Every time Ithink about it now I feel like dancing in the street for sheer joy！ Ican honestly say that I have never spent a day or an hour since，lamenting the fact that I am not another Thomas Hardy.
One night a century ago， when a screech owl was screechingin the woods along the shore of Walden Pond， Henry Thoreaudipped his goose quill into his homemade ink and wrote in hisdiary： “The cost of a thing is the amount of what I call life， whichis required to be exchanged for it immediately or in the long run.”
To put it another way： we are fools when we overpay for athing in terms of what it takes out of our very existence.