ploit the
granite treasure in The Gore and for that purpose been fully a week in
Flamsted, a few of the natives dropped into the office to talk it over.

When Octavius Buzzby, the factotum at Champ-au-Haut and twin of Augustus
Buzzby, landlord of The Greenbush, entered the former bar-room of the
old hostelry, he found the usual Saturday night frequenters. Among them
was Colonel Milton Caukins, tax collector and assistant deputy sheriff
who, never quite at ease in the presence of his long-tongued wife,
expanded discursively so soon as he found himself in the office of The
Greenbush. He was in full flow when Octavius entered.

"Hello, Tave," he cried, extending his hand in easy condescension,
"you're well come, for you're just in time to hear the latest; the
deal's on--an A. 1 sure thing this time. Aurora showed me the papers
to-day. We're in for it now--government contracts, state houses, battle
monuments, graveyards; we've got 'em all, and things'll begin to hum in
this backwater hole, you bet!"

Octavius looked inquiringly at his brother. Augustus answered by raising
his left eyebrow and placidly closing his right eye as a cautionary
signal to lie low and await developments.

It was the Colonel's way to boom everything, and simply because he could
not help it. It was not a matter of principle with him, it was an affair
of temperament. He had boomed Flamsted for the last ten years--its
climate, its situation, its scenery, its water power, its lake-shore
lands as prospective sites for mansion summer cottages, and the
treasures of its unopened quarries. So incorrigible an optimist was
Milton Caukins that any slight degree of success, which might attend the
promotion of any one of his numerous schemes, caused an elation that
amounted to hilarity. On the other hand, the deadly blight of
non-fulfilment, that annually attacked his most cherished hopes for the
future development of his native town, failed in any wise to depress
him, or check the prodigal casting of his optimistic daily bread on the
placid social waters where, as the years multiplied, his enthusiasms
scarce made a ripple.

"I see Mis' Googe yisterd'y, an' she said folks hed been down on her so
long for sellin' thet pass'l of paster for the first quarry, thet she
might ez well go the hull figger an' git 'em down on her for the rest of
her days by sellin' the rest. By Andrew Jackson! she's got the grit for
a woman--and the good looks too! She can hold her ow