"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.