The first of these songs must have followed an actual encounter with some woman or girl whose life had seemingly if not actually gone to wreck on the shore of love or passion.  At any rate he came into the office of his publishing house one gray November Sunday afternoon—­it was our custom to go there occasionally, a dozen or more congenial souls, about as one might go to a club—­and going into a small room which was fitted up with a piano as a “try-out” room (professionals desiring a song were frequently taught it in the office), he began improvising, or rather repeating over and over, a certain strain which was evidently in his mind.  A little while later he came out and said, “Listen to this, will you, Thee?”

He played and sang the first verse and chorus.  In the middle of the latter, so moved was he by the sentiment of it, his voice broke and he had to stop.  Tears stood in his eyes and he wiped them away.  A moment or two later he was able to go through it without wavering and I thought it charming for the type of thing it was intended to be.  Later on (the following spring) I was literally astonished to see how, after those various efforts usually made by popular music publishers to make a song “go”—­advertising it in the Clipper and Mirror, getting various vaudeville singers to sing it, and so forth—­it suddenly began to sell, thousands upon thousands of copies being wrapped in great bundles under my very eyes and shipped express or freight to various parts of the country.  Letters and telegrams, even, from all parts of the nation began to pour in—­“Forward express today ——­ copies of Dresser’s ’Tell Them That You Saw Me.’” The firm was at once as busy as a bee-hive, on “easy street” again, as the expression went, “in clover.”  Just before this there had been a slight slump in its business and in my brother’s finances, but now once more he was his most engaging self.  Every one in that layer of life which understands or takes an interest in popular songs and their creators knew of him and his song, his latest success.  He was, as it were, a revivified figure on Broadway.  His barbers, barkeepers, hotel clerks, theatrical box-office clerks, hotel managers and the stars and singers of the street knew of it and him.  Some enterprising button firm got out a button on which the phrase was printed.  Comedians on the stage, newspaper paragraphers, his bank teller or his tailor, even staid business men wishing to appear “up-to-date,” used it as a parting salute.  The hand-organs, the bands and the theater orchestras everywhere were using it.  One could scarcely turn a corner or go into a cheap music hall or variety house without hearing a parody of it.  It was wonderful, the enormous furore that it seemed to create, and of course my dear brother was privileged to walk about smiling and secure, his bank account large, his friends numerous, in the pink of health, and gloating over the fact that he was a success, well known, a genuine creator of popular songs.