I'd heard the front office door pushed open and listened to a couple of heavy steps on the floor runner before I glances round to find this high party with the wide, stooped shoulders and the rugged face standin' there beamin' at me genial and folksy. In one hand he has a green cloth bag with somethin' square in it, and in the other he has a broad-brimmed soft hat about the color of Camembert cheese. A tank station delegate and no mistake!

"The Horse Dealers' Exchange is over east of Fourth avenue, about eight blocks down," says I.

He chuckles good-natured and shakes his head. "You got two more comin' to you, Brother," says he.

"Is it sawmill machinery you're lookin' for, then," says I, "or the home office of Marriage Bells?"

"Struck out!" says he. "Now it's my bat. Are you J. Bayard Steele, Mister?"

"Honest, now," says I, "do I look it?"

"Then I reckon you're the other one—Professor McCabe," says he.

"Line hit over center field!" says I. "What's the follow up to that?"

"No hurry," says he. "Have a button first."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin', as he tosses the green bag and yellow lid onto a chair, dives into his side pocket, and proceeds to pin something on my coat lapel.

"Plenty of 'em," says he. "Here, take some for your friends. How's that for a slogan, anyway? 'Go to Gopher!' Good advice too. Gopher's the garden spot of the universe."

"Gopher what—where is it?" says I.

"Why," says he, "Gopher, U.S.A. That's the idea! I'm from there. Hubbs is the name,—Nelson Hubbs, secretary of the Gopher Board of Trade,—and I never miss a chance to give Gopher a boost."

"If this is a sample," says I, "you don't need to make an affidavit. But you wanted to see J. Bayard Steele, didn't you?"

It was as I'd suspicioned. Mr. Hubbs was No. 5 on the kindly deeds list that Pyramid Gordon had wished on Steele and me. We was to apply soothin' acts and financial balm to all the old grouches that Pyramid had left behind him, you remember, on a commission basis.

Seems J. Bayard had been tracin' Hubbs up by mail for more'n a month, and at that it was just by chance one of his letters had been forwarded to the right place. So Hubbs had come on to see what it was all about.

"Course," says he, "I remember this Gordon; but I didn't think he would me, and I can't see how settlin' up his will could——"

"Threw the hooks into you sometime or other, didn't he?" says I.

"I dun'no's you'd rightly call it that, either," says Hubbs, runnin' his long fingers reflective through his heavy mop of wavy hair. "I was station agent and dispatcher out at Kayuse Creek the only time we met up—and of all the forsaken, dreary, one-mule towns along the line that was the worst. I'd been there a year and a half, with no signs of ever gettin' out, and I'd got so I hated every human, being in sight, includin' myself. I even hated the people in the trains that went through, because they was goin' somewhere, and I wasn't. You know how it is."

"Well?" says I.

"So when this special pulled in, two private cars and a blind baggage," he goes on, "and a potty conductor asked me for a clear track to Omaha, I turned him down flat. Might of done it, you know, for the express was four hours behind schedule; but I was just too ornery. I let on I hadn't got the order, made 'em back their old special on a siding, and held 'em there all one blisterin' hot afternoon, while they come in by turns and cussed me. But your Mr. Gordon was the only one that talked straight to the point. 'Let us through, or I'll see that you're fired before morning!' says he, and fired I was. The night freight dropped a new agent, and by breakfast time I was a wanderer on the face of the earth. Which was the best thing, Sir, that ever happened to me! I might have stuck in Kayuse Creek until this day."

"How long was it until you discovered this Gopher spot?" says I. "Near a dozen years," says he, "and during that time, Sir, I've had a whirl at more different kinds of industry than you'd believe existed, from runnin' a self-binder to canvassin' for the Life of James A. Garfield. It was Possum Oil that brought me good luck. Boiled linseed with camphor and a little tincture of iron was what it was really made of; but there was a 'possum picture on the label, and I've had testimonials provin' that it has cured nearly every disease known to man, from ringworm to curvature of the spine. I'd worked up a fifteen-minute spiel too that was a gem of street corner eloquence, and no matter where I stuck up my flare I could do an evenin's business runnin' from ten to forty dollars.

"So when I hit them corn fritters of Mrs. Whipple's that night in Gopher I had no more notion of quittin' the road than a prairie chicken has of breakin' into a hencoop. But say, Brother, no human being ever made tastier corn fritters than them. 'Young lady,' says I to the half-grown girl that waited on table, 'who built these?'—'Mrs. Whipple,' says she. 'Present my best compliments to her,' says I, 'and tell me where I can find Mr. Whipple. I want to congratulate him.'—'Lawzee! Whipple?' says she. 'Why, he died back East goin' on six years ago.'—'Then,' says I, 'I'll take the message to Mrs. Whipple myself. She's, around, I suppose?'—'No,' says the girl. 'Soon's she got supper ready she had to go down to the square 'lectioneerin'. She's runnin' for Mayor.'

"Say, Professor McCabe, it was a fact! Besides conductin' her boardin' house and bein' president of the Civic League, she was candidate for Mayor on an independent ticket. Got it too, Sir! They have the vote out in our State, you know.

"Well, hearin' that sort of cooled me down a bit. I thought she'd be a hatchet-faced female with a voice like a guinea hen. So I didn't, see her until I was all packed up to leave next day and hunted her up to pay my bill. And say, Brother, doggoned if she don't turn out to be about the plumpest, cheeriest, winningest little body that ever I see unclaimed! Nothin' standoffish about her, either. 'There!' says she. 'Look at you, going off with all that dandruff on your coat collar! Mamie, bring me that whisk broom.'—'Ma'am,' says I, when she'd finished the job and added a little pat to my necktie, 'my name is Hubbs. It's a homely name, and I'm a homely man; but if there's any chance of ever persuadin' you to be Mrs. Nelson Hubbs, I'll stick around this town until the crack of doom.'—'Now don't be foolish,' says she. 'Run along. I'm busy.' Wa'n't so encouragin', was it? 'Let's see,' says I, 'what place is this anyhow?'—'The idea!' says she. 'It's Gopher; and let me tell you, Mr. Hubbs, some day it's going to be one of the finest cities west of Chicago!'—'While you're in it,' says I, 'it's goin' to be good enough for me. I'm goin' to stay right here.'

"Well, that's what I did, Sir. The Gopher Gazette was for sale, and inside of twenty-four hours I'd bought it, one-third cash, and I've been runnin' it ever since. And I've proposed to Mrs. Whipple once a week reg'lar the whole ten months."

"Only to get more of that run-along-now advice?" says I.

He winks rapid two or three times by way of relievin' his feelin's. "It ain't exactly as bad as that," says he. "I reckon she's kind of got used to my homely face, and if I have any good points at all, you can bet she's found 'em. Anyway, one night a couple of months ago she dropped a hint that was like manna from the sky. I've been livin' on it ever since. 'Nelson,' says she, 'there's only one man I'd have, and that's the man who will put Gopher on the map.'"

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Hence the buttons?"

"That's only part of my scheme," says Hubbs. "The rest I worked out between the time I got word from this Mr. Steele and the day I left for New York. Up to then I hadn't thought of comin' East to boost Gopher; but the letter settled me. 'I'm goin' on,' says I to Mrs. Whipple, 'and if Gopher ain't on the map when I come back, I'll never ask you again to change your name to Hubbs. I'll change mine to Dubb!' So you see, Professor, I ain't got any time to waste. Where can I find Mr. Steele?"

I gave him directions for locatin' J. Bayard, and off he pikes, swingin' the green bag jaunty in one big paw. He'd been here ten minutes, and he'd told me the story of his life. Now see what Steele gets out of him.

"Shorty," says J. Bayard, driftin' in languid after lunch and caressin' his bank president whiskers approvin' as he camps down by the desk, "the deeper I get into the career of your late friend, Pyramid Gordon, the more I am amazed at the infinite pains he took to deal unjustly with so many different persons of no account."

"All of which means, I expect," says I, "that you've been havin' a talk with Hubbs. Well, what you goin' to do for him?"

Mr. Steele shrugs his shoulders. "He is simply impossible!" says he.

"How's that?" says I.

"I was unable to decide," says J. Bayard, "whether he was mentally unbalanced, or just plain crank. Comes from some absurd little hole out West, and has but one idea in his head,—to boom that place. Tried to pin a beastly button on me. Ah! I see you have one."

"Sure!" says I. "'Go to Gopher!' Catchy, ain't it?"

"Bah!" says he. "What do I care for his little two-by-four village? What does anyone care, save the poor wretches who must live there? And yet he insisted on boring me for one mortal hour with his preposterous schemes. It appears that he has raised an advertising fund of a thousand dollars, and means to open a publicity bureau somewhere downtown."

"Well, that's enterprisin', ain't it?" says I.

"It's imbecile!" says J. Bayard. "What can he do with a thousand in New York. You might as well try to sprinkle Central Park with a quart watering can. I told him so. I tried to get out of him too some suggestion as to how we could best carry out the terms of Gordon's crazy will; some kind and generous act that we could do for him, you know. But he would talk of nothing but Gopher—everlastingly and eternally Gopher!"

"Yes," says I, "that's his long suit."

"And do you know what he thinks he's going to do?" goes on Steele. "Why, he's had the nerve to plot out a whole quarter-section around his infernal town, organized a realty company, and had half a million dollars' worth of Gopher Development shares printed! Thinks he's going to unload trash like that here in New York! Now what can I do for such a man?"

"Ain't that right in your line, though?" says I.

"It may have been at one time," admits J. Bayard; "but to-day you couldn't give away nickel chances on the national gold reserve. The market is dead. Even the curb brokers have fallen back on racing tin rolling toys and matching quarters."

Well, I couldn't dispute it. If anyone knows the phony finance game at all, it's J. Bayard Steele. And the best I could do was to get him to agree to sort of keep track of Hubbs and maybe, after he'd blown all his cash against this bloomin' stunt, step in and send him back to Gopher before he hit the bread line.

Must have been a week that I didn't hear from either of 'em, and then here the other afternoon J. Bayard calls up on the 'phone.

"Shorty," says he, "if you want to see our friend Hubbs reach the pinnacle of his folly, come down to Broad street right away. I'll meet you in front of the Hancock National!"

As there's no rush on at the studio just then I goes down.

"It's rich," says Steele. "Actually, that country clown is trying on, right here in New York, the same primitive methods that real estate boomers use in the soggy South and the woolly West. Would you believe it? Come have a look."

Well, say, it wa'n't easy gettin' near enough, at that. But we works our way through the mob until we're in front of the buildin', where there's a big, yellow-lettered sign that reads:

GOPHER, U.S.A.
HEADQUARTERS

Underneath the sign was a big window with the sash out and a sort of platform juttin' over the sidewalk. Just as we arrives out steps Nelson Hubbs, wearin' the same rube rig and carryin' the same green bag. He looks just as big and homely and good-natured as ever.

"Friends," says he, sweepin' off the alfalfa lid with a flourish, "out in Gopher we always like to open up with a little music; and while I ain't no Caruso, or anything like that, I'm goin' to do my best."

A snicker runs through the crowd at that, turnin' to haw-haws as he proceeds to unlimber something from the green bag. It's an accordion, one of these push and pull organs. Believe me, though, he could sing some! Throwin' back his head and shakin' that heavy mop of hair, he roars out deep and strong the first advertisin' solo, I guess, that New York ever heard.

"Now, Friends, everybody in on the chorus!" he calls. "Every-body! Here she goes!

"Oh, I want to go to Gopher—Gopher—
Oh, I want to go to Gopher—Gopher!
The streets are straight, the sky is high,
You'll strike it rich, and live on pie,
You can't get sick, and you never die,
In Gopher, U. S. A."

Did they join in? Say, it was a swingin' tune, the words was easy to follow, and the crowd was ready for anything. They simply cut loose, and by the time they'd done that chorus two or three times he had 'em right with him. Then he springs his business spiel.

Talk about your boost orations—say, that was a classic! He tells 'em confidential how Gopher is the comin' metropolis of the great West; how, "with its main boulevard laid out along the sinuous, lovely banks of the pellucid Pinto River, and its western boundaries stretching off to the sunset-tinted tops of Soup Kettle Range, it has a scenic setting unsurpassed anywhere this side of Switzerland." And when it comes to predictin' how prosperity has picked Gopher for its very own, he goes the limit. Next he tells 'em about the development company and the shares.

"Remember, Friends," says he, "every share means a front foot, and every front foot a fortune. Send in fifty shares, and we'll give you a deed to a city lot. First come first served, and the early bird laps up the cream. I don't urge you to buy 'em. I'm just giving you a chance to get in on the ground floor. And if you don't want to come in to-day, maybe you will to-morrow. Anyway, have a button. Wear it! Tell your friends about Gopher. Here you are! Every-body have a button!"

With that he scatters handful after handful broadcast into the crowd, which catches 'em eager. Even J. Bayard gets excited and grabs for one.

"By George, Shorty!" says he. "Hanged if there isn't the germ of a good idea in this scheme of his! Every share a front foot! And if he could only get the buying started——"

Steele is gazin' over the heads of the crowd absentminded. All of a sudden he breaks out again. "I have it!" says he. "I'll get that curb gang to fooling with Gopher."

But, foxy as he was, I don't believe J. Bayard knew just how big a bonfire he was touchin' off. I know I thought he was nutty when he wants me to O.K. his plan for buyin' a hundred shares to distribute free.

"Bait!" says he. "They'll bite! You watch 'em!"

Well, if you've been followin' the market close, you know what happened. I expect the first bids was made just as a josh. I hear that Gopher Development started at ten cents. Then someone sold a block at fifteen. By noon they'd gone to twenty. Durin' luncheon time a sporty bunch in a rathskeller cooked up the bright idea that it would be humorous to sell Gopher short and hammer the price down to five cents. Before three P.M. the gross transactions had run into the thousands.

I was in Hubbs' office when the first real money was paid over for Gopher. A hook-nosed young broker in a shepherd plaid suit and a pink felt hat rushes in and planks down twenty dollars for fifty shares at the market. Hubbs was just passin' 'em over too, when Steele interferes.

"Five more, please," says J. Bayard. "We are holding Gopher at 50."

"Wha'd'ye mean, fifty?" gasps the curb man. But he was short on a three-fifteen delivery, and he had to put up the extra five.

"Stick to that rule," Steele advises Hubbs. "Ask 'em ten points more than outside quotations."

What really got things goin', though, was when some of the stock clerks and bookkeepers, who'd heard and talked nothin' but Gopher these last two days, begun buyin' lots outright and turnin' 'em in for deeds. Whether or not they believed all Hubbs had fed 'em about Gopher don't matter. They was takin' a chance. So they slips out at noon and gives real orders. Course, they wa'n't plungin'; but the combined effect was the same.

And it don't take the curb long to get wise. "The suckers are buying Gopher," was the word passed round. Then maybe the quotations didn't jump! There wa'n't any quarter matchin' down in Broad street after that. They was too busy yellin' Gopher at each other. Up she went,—75, then 85, then 110, and when closin' hour come the third day it was the liveliest scene inside the ropes that the margin district had known in years.

I expect the newspapers helped a lot too. They had a heap of fun with Hubbs and his Gopher proposition,—Hubbs of Gopher, U.S.A. They printed pictures of him playin' the accordion, and interviews reproducin' his descriptive gems about "the banks of the pellucid Pinto," and such.

But you never can tell how a comedy stab is goin' to turn out. This game of buyin' real estate shares for a dollar or so, with the prospects that before night it might be worth twice as much, was one that hit 'em hard. By Friday Gopher stock was being advertised like Steel preferred, and the brokers was flooded with buyin' orders. Some of the big firms got into the game too. A fat German butcher came all the way down from the Bronx, counted out a thousand dollars in bills to Nelson Hubbs, and was satisfied to walk away with a deed for a hundred front feet of Gopher realty. He wasn't such a boob, either. Two hours later he could have closed out five hundred to the good.

It wa'n't like a stock flurry, where there's an inside gang manipulatin' the wires. All the guidin' hand there was in this deal was that of J. Bayard Steele, and he contents himself with eggin' Hubbs on to stand firm on that ten-cent raise.

"Not a penny more, not a penny less," says he, beamin'. "It'll get 'em."

And I don't know when I've seen him look more contented. As for Nelson Hubbs, he seems a little dazed at it all; but he keeps his head and smiles good-natured on everybody. Not until Gopher Development hits twenty-five dollars a share does he show any signs of gettin' restless.

"Boys," says he, bangin' his fist down on the desk, "it's great! I've turned that thousand-dollar fund into fifty, and as near as I can figure it property values along our Main street have been jumped about eight hundred per cent. They've heard of it out home, and they're just wild. I expect I ought to stay right here and push things; but—well, McCabe, maybe you can guess."

"No word from a certain party, eh?" says I.

Hubbs shakes his head and starts pacin' up and down in front of the window. He hadn't done more'n three laps, though, before in blows a messenger boy and hands him a telegram.

"We-e-e-yow!" yells Hubbs. "Hey, Shorty, it's come—doggoned if it ain't come! Look at that!"

It was a brief bulletin, but full of meat. It runs like this:Good work, Nelson. You've done it. Gopher's on the map.

And the last we saw of him, after he'd turned the stock business over to Mendell & Co., he was pikin' for a west-bound train with his grip in one fist and that old accordion in the other.

J. Bayard smiles after him friendly and indulgent. "A woman in the case, I suppose?" says he.

"Uh-huh," says I. "The plumpest, cheeriest, winnin'est little body ever left unclaimed,—his description. She's the lady Mayor out there. And if I'm any judge, with them two holdin' it down, Gopher's on the map to stay."