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!