"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!"