“Thank you for it,” Nash replied. “I’ve always wanted a good copy of these verses.”
The vagrant rubbed his hands together and looked over to where the big, white Auditorium rose above the slim eucalyptus trees.
“Well,” he said, “I’m off this time! It’s me for the Santa Fe Station and the softest rod on the Limited. Your two silver boys ought to keep me in eats for a couple of days. Say,” he drawled, “maybe I won’t be joyful to see real paper dollars again! And just let me get a peek at that Metropolitan Tower once more!” He lowered his voice impressively, as if imparting a great secret: “And, say, you can talk till you’re black in the face about this town, and the climate, and the perpetual flowers; but, honest, now—you’ve been in New York—did you ever smell anything sweeter than them flowers in Madison Square in May?”
“I never had much time to sit in parks when I was in New York,” responded Nash.
“Too bad! Don’t know what you’ve missed. Well, by-by.”
The man waved a friendly hand, still grinning, and disappeared around a corner.
Five minutes later Nash followed, going around the large fountain. He walked slowly past the beds of tropical plants, and on to Olive Street. Suddenly remembering the gift the disparager of Los Angeles had bestowed upon him, Nash took it from his pocket, and for the first time examined it closely. As he turned the leaves—some of them uncut—an envelope fell out. He picked it up.
It was unsealed, and addressed to a “Mr. Wilson Hooker, Foreman, Camp No. 47, Los Angeles Aqueduct.”
“I wonder if this was of any value to my New York friend?” Nash asked himself. “Or did it belong to him at all?”
He looked at the envelope again, aware by the feel of it that there was a letter inside.