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.