n for a figger with
any gal in this town. I see the syndicaters a-castin' sheeps' eyes her
ways the day she took 'em over The Gore prospectin'; but, by A. J.! they
hauled in their lookin's when she turned them great eyes of her'n their
ways.--What's the figger for the hull piece? Does anybody know?"

It was Joel Quimber, the ancient pound-master, who spoke, and the
silence that followed proved that each man present was resenting the
fact that he was not in a position to give the information desired.

"I shall know as soon as they get it recorded, that is, if they don't
trade for a dollar and if they ever do get it recorded." The speaker was
Elmer Wiggins, druggist and town clerk for the last quarter of a
century. He was pessimistically inclined, the tendency being fostered by
his dual vocation of selling drugs and registering the deaths they
occasionally caused.

Milton Caukins, or the Colonel, as he preferred to be called on account
of his youthful service in the state militia and his present connection
with the historical society of The Rangers, took his cigar from his lips
and blew the smoke forcibly towards the ceiling before he spoke.

"She's got enough now to put Champ through college. The first forty
acres she sold ten years ago will do that."

"I ain't so sure of thet." Joel Quimber's tone implied obstinate
conviction that his modestly expressed doubt was a foregone conclusion.
"Champ's a devil of a feller when it comes to puttin' through anything.
He's a chip off the old block. He'll put through more 'n his mother can
git out if he gits in any thicker with them big guns--race hosses, steam
yachts an' fancy fixin's. He could sink the hull Gore to the foundations
of Old Time in a few of them suppers I've heerd he gin arter the show. I
heerd he gin ten dollars a plate for the last one--some kind of
primy-donny, I heerd. But Champ's game though. I heerd Mr. Van Ostend
talkin' 'bout him to one of the syndicaters--mebbe they're goin' to work
him in with them somehow; anyway, I guess Aurory don't begrutch him a
little spendin' money seein' how easy it come out of the old sheep
pasters. Who'd 'a' thought a streak of granite could hev made sech a
stir!"

"It's a stir that'll sink this town in the mud." Mr. Wiggins' voice was
what might be called thorough-bass, and was apt to carry more weight
with his townspeople than his opinions, which latter were not always
acceptable to Colonel Caukins. "Look at it now! This t