Reserve four orchestra seats for Friday evening—my usualones. Yes； Friday—good-bye.’
“‘I run over to New York every two weeks to see a show，’
says the farmer， hanging up the receiver. ‘I catch theeighteen-hour flyer at Indianapolis， spend ten hours in theheyday of night on the Yappian Way， and get home in timeto see the chickens go to roost forty-eight hours later. Oh，the pristine Hubbard squasherino of the cave-dwellingperiod is getting geared up some for the annual meeting ofthe Don’t-Blow-Out-the-Gas Association， don’t you think，Mr. Bunk？’
“‘I seem to perceive，’ says I， ‘a kind of hiatus in theagrarian traditions in which heretofore， I have reposedconfidence.’
“‘Sure， Bunk，’ says he. ‘The yellow primrose on theriver’s brim is getting to look to us Reubs like a holidayedition de luxe of the Language of Flowers with deckleedges and frontispiece.’
“Just then the telephone calls him again.
“‘Hello， hello！’ says he. ‘Oh， that’s Perkins， at Milldale.
I told you 800 was too much for that horse. Have yougot him there？ Good. Let me see him. Get away from thetransmitter. Now make him trot in a circle. Faster. Yes， Ican hear him. Keep on—faster yet. . . . That’ll do. Now leadhim up to the phone. Closer. Get his nose nearer. There.
Now wait. No； I don’t want that horse. What？ No； not atany price. He interferes； and he’s windbroken. Goodbye.’
“‘Now， Bunk，’ says the farmer， ‘do you begin to realizethat agriculture has had a hair cut？ You belong in a bygoneera. Why， Tom Lawson himself knows better than to try tocatch an up-to-date agriculturalist napping. It’s Saturday，the Fourteenth， on the farm， you bet. Now， look here， andsee how we keep up with the day’s doings.’
“He shows me a machine on a table with two things foryour ears like the penny-in-the-slot affairs. I puts it onand listens. A female voice starts up reading headlines ofmurders， accidents and other political casualities.
“‘What you hear，’ says the farmer， ‘is a synopsis of today’snews in the New York， Chicago， St. Louis and SanFrancisco papers. It is wired in to our Rural News Bureauand served hot to subscribers. On this table you see theprincipal dailies and weeklies of the country. Also a specialservice of advance sheets of the monthly magazines.’
“I picks up one sheet and sees that it’s headed： ‘SpecialAdvance Proofs. In July， 1909， the Century will say’—andso forth.
“The farmer rings up somebody—his manager， Ireckon—and tells him to let that herd of 15 Jerseys go at600 a head； and to sow the 900-acre field in wheat； andto have 200 extra cans ready at the station for the milktrolley car. Then he passes the Henry Clays and sets out abottle of green chartreuse， and goes over and looks at theticker tape.
“‘Consolidated Gas up two points，’ says he. ‘Oh， verywell.’
“‘Ever monkey with copper？’ I asks.
“‘Stand back！’ says he， raising his hand， ‘or I’ll call thedog. I told you not to waste your time.’
“After a while he says： ‘Bunk， if you don’t mind my tellingyou， your company begins to cloy slightly. I’ve got to writean article on the Chimera of Communism for a magazine，and attend a meeting of the Race Track Association thisafternoon. Of course you understand by now that youcan’t get my proxy for your Remedy， whatever it may be.’
“Well， sir， all I could think of to do was to go out andget in the buggy. The horse turned round and took meback to the hotel. I hitched him and went in to see Andy.
