GUMMING GOPHER TO THE MAP
I'd heard the front office door pushed open and listened to a couple of
heavy steps on the floor runner before I glances round to find this high
party with the wide, stooped shoulders and the rugged face standin'
there beamin' at me genial and folksy. In one hand he has a green cloth
bag with somethin' square in it, and in the other he has a broad-brimmed
soft hat about the color of Camembert cheese. A tank station delegate
and no mistake!
"The Horse Dealers' Exchange is over east of Fourth avenue, about eight
blocks down," says I.
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.
"So when this special pulled in, two private cars and a blind baggage,"
he goes on, "and a potty conductor asked me for a clear track to Omaha,
I turned him down flat. Might of done it, you know, for the express was
four hours behind schedule; but I was just too ornery. I let on I hadn't
got the order, made 'em back their old special on a siding, and held 'em
there all one blisterin' hot afternoon, while they come in by turns and
cussed me. But your Mr. Gordon was the only one that talked straight to
the point. 'Let us through, or I'll see that you're fired before
morning!' says he, and fired I was. The night freight dropped a new
agent, and by breakfast time I was a wanderer on the face of the earth.
Which was the best thing, Sir, that ever happened to me! I might have
stuck in Kayuse Creek until this day."
"How long was it until you discovered this Gopher spot?" says I. "Near a
dozen years," says he, "and during that time, Sir, I've had a whirl at
more different kinds of industry than you'd believe existed, from
runnin' a self-binder to canvassin' for the Life of James A. Garfield.
It was Possum Oil that brought me good luck. Boiled linseed with camphor
and a little tincture of iron was what it was really made of; but there
was a 'possum picture on the label, and I've had testimonials provin'
that it has cured nearly every disease known to man, from ringworm to
curvature of the spine. I'd worked up a fifteen-minute spiel too that
was a gem of street corner eloquence, and no matter where I stuck up my
flare I could do an evenin's business runnin' from ten to forty dollars.
"So when I hit them corn fritters of Mrs. Whipple's that night in Gopher
I had no more notion of quittin' the road than a prairie chicken has of
breakin' into a hencoop. But say, Brother, no human being ever made
tastier corn fritters than them. 'Young lady,' says I to the half-grown
girl that waited on table, 'who built these?'--'Mrs. Whipple,' says
she. 'Present my best compliments to her,' says I, 'and tell me where I
can find Mr. Whipple. I want to congratulate him.'--'Lawzee! Whipple?'
says she. 'Why, he died back East goin' on six years ago.'--'Then,' says
I, 'I'll take the message to Mrs. Whipple myself. She's, around, I
suppose?'--'No,' says the girl. 'Soon's she got supper ready she had to
go down to the square 'lectioneerin'. She's runnin' for Mayor.'
"Say, Professor McCabe, it was a fact! Besides conductin' her boardin'
house and bein' president of the Civic League, she was candidate for
Mayor on an independent ticket. Got it too, Sir! They have the vote out
in our State, you know.
"Well, hearin' that sort of cooled me down a bit. I thought she'd be a
hatchet-faced female with a voice like a guinea hen. So I didn't, see
her until I was all packed up to leave next day and hunted her up to pay
my bill. And say, Brother, doggoned if she don't turn out to be about
the plumpest, cheeriest, winningest little body that ever I see
unclaimed! Nothin' standoffish about her, either. 'There!' says she.
'Look at you, going off with all that dandruff on your coat collar!
Mamie, bring me that whisk broom.'--'Ma'am,' says I, when she'd finished
the job and added a little pat to my necktie, 'my name is Hubbs. It's a
homely name, and I'm a homely man; but if there's any chance of ever
persuadin' you to be Mrs. Nelson Hubbs, I'll stick around this town
until the crack of doom.'--'Now don't be foolish,' says she. 'Run along.
I'm busy.' Wa'n't so encouragin', was it? 'Let's see,' says I, 'what
place is this anyhow?'--'The idea!' says she. 'It's Gopher; and let me
tell you, Mr. Hubbs, some day it's going to be one of the finest cities
west of Chicago!'--'While you're in it,' says I, 'it's goin' to be good
enough for me. I'm goin' to stay right here.'
"Well, that's what I did, Sir. The Gopher Gazette was for sale, and
inside of twenty-four hours I'd bought it, one-third cash, and I've been
runnin' it ever since. And I've proposed to Mrs. Whipple once a week
reg'lar the whole ten months."
"Only to get more of that run-along-now advice?" says I.
He winks rapid two or three times by way of relievin' his feelin's. "It
ain't exactly as bad as that," says he. "I reckon she's kind of got used
to my homely face, and if I have any good points at all, you can bet
she's found 'em. Anyway, one night a couple of months ago she dropped a
hint that was like manna from the sky. I've been livin' on it ever
since. 'Nelson,' says she, 'there's only one man I'd have, and that's
the man who will put Gopher on the map.'"
"Oh-ho!" says I. "Hence the buttons?"
"That's only part of my scheme," says Hubbs. "The rest I worked out
between the time I got word from this Mr. Steele and the day I left for
New York. Up to then I hadn't thought of comin' East to boost Gopher;
but the letter settled me. 'I'm goin' on,' says I to Mrs. Whipple, 'and
if Gopher ain't on the map when I come back, I'll never ask you again to
change your name to Hubbs. I'll change mine to Dubb!' So you see,
Professor, I ain't got any time to waste. Where can I find Mr. Steele?"
I gave him directions for locatin' J. Bayard, and off he pikes, swingin'
the green bag jaunty in one big paw. He'd been here ten minutes, and
he'd told me the story of his life. Now see what Steele gets out of him.
"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!"
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!
"Oh, I want to go to Gopher--Gopher--
Oh, I want to go to Gopher--Gopher!
The streets are straight, the sky is high,
You'll strike it rich, and live on pie,
You can't get sick, and you never die,
In Gopher, U. S. A."
Did they join in? Say, it was a swingin' tune, the words was easy to
follow, and the crowd was ready for anything. They simply cut loose, and
by the time they'd done that chorus two or three times he had 'em right
with him. Then he springs his business spiel.
Talk about your boost orations--say, that was a classic! He tells 'em
confidential how Gopher is the comin' metropolis of the great West; how,
"with its main boulevard laid out along the sinuous, lovely banks of the
pellucid Pinto River, and its western boundaries stretching off to the
sunset-tinted tops of Soup Kettle Range, it has a scenic setting
unsurpassed anywhere this side of Switzerland." And when it comes to
predictin' how prosperity has picked Gopher for its very own, he goes
the limit. Next he tells 'em about the development company and the
shares.
"Remember, Friends," says he, "every share means a front foot, and every
front foot a fortune. Send in fifty shares, and we'll give you a deed to
a city lot. First come first served, and the early bird laps up the
cream. I don't urge you to buy 'em. I'm just giving you a chance to get
in on the ground floor. And if you don't want to come in to-day, maybe
you will to-morrow. Anyway, have a button. Wear it! Tell your friends
about Gopher. Here you are! Every-body have a button!"
With that he scatters handful after handful broadcast into the crowd,
which catches 'em eager. Even J. Bayard gets excited and grabs for one.
"By George, Shorty!" says he. "Hanged if there isn't the germ of a good
idea in this scheme of his! Every share a front foot! And if he could
only get the buying started----"
Steele is gazin' over the heads of the crowd absentminded. All of a
sudden he breaks out again. "I have it!" says he. "I'll get that curb
gang to fooling with Gopher."
But, foxy as he was, I don't believe J. Bayard knew just how big a
bonfire he was touchin' off. I know I thought he was nutty when he wants
me to O.K. his plan for buyin' a hundred shares to distribute free.
"Bait!" says he. "They'll bite! You watch 'em!"
Well, if you've been followin' the market close, you know what happened.
I expect the first bids was made just as a josh. I hear that Gopher
Development started at ten cents. Then someone sold a block at fifteen.
By noon they'd gone to twenty. Durin' luncheon time a sporty bunch in a
rathskeller cooked up the bright idea that it would be humorous to sell
Gopher short and hammer the price down to five cents. Before three P.M.
the gross transactions had run into the thousands.
[Illustration: "Now, Friends!" he calls, "Everybody in on the chorus."]
I was in Hubbs' office when the first real money was paid over for
Gopher. A hook-nosed young broker in a shepherd plaid suit and a pink
felt hat rushes in and planks down twenty dollars for fifty shares at
the market. Hubbs was just passin' 'em over too, when Steele interferes.
"Five more, please," says J. Bayard. "We are holding Gopher at 50."
"Wha'd'ye mean, fifty?" gasps the curb man. But he was short on a
three-fifteen delivery, and he had to put up the extra five.
"Stick to that rule," Steele advises Hubbs. "Ask 'em ten points more
than outside quotations."
What really got things goin', though, was when some of the stock clerks
and bookkeepers, who'd heard and talked nothin' but Gopher these last
two days, begun buyin' lots outright and turnin' 'em in for deeds.
Whether or not they believed all Hubbs had fed 'em about Gopher don't
matter. They was takin' a chance. So they slips out at noon and gives
real orders. Course, they wa'n't plungin'; but the combined effect was
the same.
And it don't take the curb long to get wise. "The suckers are buying
Gopher," was the word passed round. Then maybe the quotations didn't
jump! There wa'n't any quarter matchin' down in Broad street after
that. They was too busy yellin' Gopher at each other. Up she went,--75,
then 85, then 110, and when closin' hour come the third day it was the
liveliest scene inside the ropes that the margin district had known in
years.
I expect the newspapers helped a lot too. They had a heap of fun with
Hubbs and his Gopher proposition,--Hubbs of Gopher, U.S.A. They printed
pictures of him playin' the accordion, and interviews reproducin' his
descriptive gems about "the banks of the pellucid Pinto," and such.
But you never can tell how a comedy stab is goin' to turn out. This game
of buyin' real estate shares for a dollar or so, with the prospects that
before night it might be worth twice as much, was one that hit 'em hard.
By Friday Gopher stock was being advertised like Steel preferred, and
the brokers was flooded with buyin' orders. Some of the big firms got
into the game too. A fat German butcher came all the way down from the
Bronx, counted out a thousand dollars in bills to Nelson Hubbs, and was
satisfied to walk away with a deed for a hundred front feet of Gopher
realty. He wasn't such a boob, either. Two hours later he could have
closed out five hundred to the good.
It wa'n't like a stock flurry, where there's an inside gang manipulatin'
the wires. All the guidin' hand there was in this deal was that of J.
Bayard Steele, and he contents himself with eggin' Hubbs on to stand
firm on that ten-cent raise.
"Not a penny more, not a penny less," says he, beamin'. "It'll get 'em."
And I don't know when I've seen him look more contented. As for Nelson
Hubbs, he seems a little dazed at it all; but he keeps his head and
smiles good-natured on everybody. Not until Gopher Development hits
twenty-five dollars a share does he show any signs of gettin' restless.
"Boys," says he, bangin' his fist down on the desk, "it's great! I've
turned that thousand-dollar fund into fifty, and as near as I can figure
it property values along our Main street have been jumped about eight
hundred per cent. They've heard of it out home, and they're just wild. I
expect I ought to stay right here and push things; but--well, McCabe,
maybe you can guess."
"No word from a certain party, eh?" says I.
Hubbs shakes his head and starts pacin' up and down in front of the
window. He hadn't done more'n three laps, though, before in blows a
messenger boy and hands him a telegram.
"We-e-e-yow!" yells Hubbs. "Hey, Shorty, it's come--doggoned if it ain't
come! Look at that!"
It was a brief bulletin, but full of meat. It runs like this:
Good work, Nelson. You've done it. Gopher's on the map.
And the last we saw of him, after he'd turned the stock business over to
Mendell & Co., he was pikin' for a west-bound train with his grip in one
fist and that old accordion in the other.
J. Bayard smiles after him friendly and indulgent. "A woman in the case,
I suppose?" says he.
"Uh-huh," says I. "The plumpest, cheeriest, winnin'est little body ever
left unclaimed,--his description. She's the lady Mayor out there. And if
I'm any judge, with them two holdin' it down, Gopher's on the map to
stay."