A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.
The Dale-Dustin well was a dry hole. It contained a little gas and
plenty of salt water; but not a drop of oil flowed from it, though, as
Brace Barlow said, the material through which the drill had finally
pierced, at a depth of twelve hundred feet, was as likely looking oil
sand as one would wish to see. The boss driller was greatly puzzled to
account for the present state of affairs, though he was not inclined to
talk much about it. He had so often and so confidently predicted that
this well was not only going to strike oil, but to prove a “gusher,”
that he now had nothing to say.
He spent the greater part of the morning in wandering moodily about the
place, occasionally entering the derrick, and casting reproachful
glances at the idle drills, as though they were in some way responsible
for having opened such a useless hole in the ground. Then he would pick
up a handful of sand, from a little pile on the derrick floor, where the
sand-pump, that brought it from the very bottom of the well, had
deposited it. He would smell of this sand, and taste it, and rub it
slowly between his fingers. Then, with a perplexed shake of his head,
the “dear giant” would throw it away, and again set forth on his
melancholy wanderings about the place. He had discharged and paid off
his men that morning; so now he was left entirely alone with his
thoughts. At length, about noon, he disappeared, and nobody knew what
had become of him.
The night before, his tour of duty, or “tower,” as the oil men say,
began at midnight, when he took charge of the drilling, with one
assistant. They found that the tools had entered the third sand, in
which it had been expected to strike oil, and were rapidly cutting their
way through it. The layer of sandstone at this point was unusually
thick, and it was not until nearly daylight that the drill penetrated
beyond it.
With each drop of the tools, the anxious watchers at the surface
expected a rush of oil; and each time the sand-pump was let down, its
return was eagerly awaited, and its contents were carefully examined.
There were, to be sure, traces of oil; but that was all.
All night long, Colonel Dale sat in the derrick, hardly speaking or
moving, except when he stepped forward to study the contents of the
sand-pump. It was a night of nights to him. His fortunes, and those of
the dear ones dependent upon him, were to be decided by the result of
those few hours’ labor.
A derrick lamp cast an uncertain light over the scene, and threw long
wavering shadows across the floor. Brace Barlow worked the temper screw,
and turned the drill after each stroke, so as to insure its cutting a
perfectly round hole. His assistant labored at the little, glowing forge
in one corner. Here he heated the extra drills, and, on the anvil beside
him, beat their blunted points into sharp, cutting edges with a heavy
hammer.
There was a steady clangor of noise within the boarded structure; while
outside the wind howled dismally. Conversation would have been
difficult; and, under the circumstances, there was nothing that any of
the three men cared to say. Colonel Dale’s face grew whiter and whiter,
as the slow hours passed, and the monotonous working of the tools
produced no result. His eyes were fixed upon the great drill rope, as it
moved steadily up and down, but he did not see it. He saw his dearly
loved grandson, and his niece, thrown on the charity of the world. He
saw Dalecourt, his once beautiful home, and the home of his fathers,
passing from him, and occupied by strangers. He saw himself ruined and
helpless, pointed at by men as an old fool, who had persisted in
squandering his money on a reckless adventure that everybody told him
would only result in failure.
He hardly knew when the monotonous throb of the machinery ceased; but,
in the stillness that followed, he heard the tones of Brace Barlow’s
voice, something like those of a judgment. Standing respectfully and
pityingly before him, the young man said:
“I hate to tell you, Colonel; but it’s no use drilling any further.
We’ve gone clean through the sand without a show. I don’t understand it,
but it’s so all the same, and it would be foolish to spend any more
money on such a ‘duster’ as this hole has proved.”
“Very well, Mr. Barlow,” replied Colonel Dale, speaking calmly and
without a trace of emotion, “pay off the men and discharge them. I am
going to the house for a nap. Please see that I am not disturbed or
awakened.” Then the stricken man, with the merciless hand of ruin
clutching at his throat, walked slowly away from the scene of his high
hopes and bitter disappointment.
In the stillness that followed the stopping of the machinery, Brace
Barlow’s words had been plainly heard by the oil scout, who crouched,
wet, cold, and well-nigh exhausted, in his hiding-place close beside the
derrick. It was what he had waited for; and, an hour later, the news of
the failure of the Dale-Dustin wild-cat well was flashing far and wide
over the wires.
Soon afterward all the world knew of it—that is, all the oil world or
the world that cared to know of such things. The greater part of this
world rejoiced at the news. It was not exactly envy or jealousy that
caused their rejoicing, but perhaps it was a mixture of the two. At any
rate it was that unkind feeling that prompts so many of us to secretly
dislike the person whom we are congratulating on a success, and, again,
to secretly rejoice over his misfortunes, while outwardly sympathizing
with him. A few, a very few people were really grieved by the news and
were sincerely sorry for the old man and the boy whose hopes were dashed
by it.
Deacon Thackby was sorry, but at the same time he found great
satisfaction in saying: “You remember I told you how it would be, an I
give the Cunnel a fair warnin.”
Brace Barlow was sorry; sorry from the very bottom of his great, honest
heart; but as he could find no words to express his sorrow he went away
without having said that he was.
The scouts were sorry; not that it made any great difference to them,
only it would have been so much more fun if the well had proved a
“gusher” instead of a “duster.” Still, as they philosophically remarked,
it would all be the same in the long run. So, after visiting the now
lonely and deserted well to assure themselves that the report concerning
it was true, they packed their hand-bags and departed in search of new
“mysteries.” Only one of their number remained behind, and he was the
one who, having crouched beside the derrick all night long, was so worn
out that he slept through the greater part of the following day. When he
awoke his companions had departed, and as the last train of that day had
also gone he was forced to remain where he was until the next morning.
To a very small, almost unnoticed portion of the world, the news that
the well was a “duster” caused not only unfeigned sorrow, but genuine
consternation. Miss Hatty had always been hopeful of its success, while
Arthur had never for a moment doubted it. He had such absolute faith
that the oil was there and would be found that, with Cynthia’s help, he
had made plans for years to come, all based upon the striking of oil in
the Dale-Dustin well, and the income to be derived from it. He had not
only planned the restoration of Dalecourt and laid out his own career as
a railroad man, but he had given to all of his friends, and especially
to those who had been kind to him and Uncle Phin on their journey,
everything that they most desired.
To Cynthia this had all seemed so real that for several days she had
been in a state of mental bewilderment, trying to decide upon what she
did most desire. To have this responsibility lifted from her mind by the
refusal of the oil well to provide even the smallest income with which
Arthur’s plans might be carried out, was really a great relief to the
little girl. Still she could and did sympathize with Arthur’s distress,
and tried, in her childish way, to comfort him by telling him not to
mind, that it didn’t matter very much any how, and that there were lots
of good times left.
But Arthur did mind, though it was more for his grandfather’s sake than
for his own. Brace Barlow had awakened him at daylight by throwing
pebbles against his window, to tell him the sad news, and ask him to
warn his cousins that Colonel Dale had just gone to bed utterly
exhausted, and must not be disturbed.
Arthur told Miss Hatty and Cynthia, and, after they had eaten a
sorrowful breakfast, they sat and talked of their grief in whispers and
low, awed tones, as though somebody had died.
Miss Hatty, who realized more fully than anybody else her uncle’s
position, and what utter ruin this blow meant for him, was more
distressed even than Arthur, and he almost forgot his own sorrow in his
efforts to comfort her.
“Don’t cry, Cousin Hatty,” he pleaded, as he gently smoothed her hair,
and wondered in his boyish fashion what good crying could do in such a
case as this. “It isn’t so bad after all, when you come to think of it,”
he continued. “Really it isn’t. Even if we can’t go back to Dalecourt,
we have got this place, and it’s a great deal better than some places,
you know, and your mamma and Uncle Phin can come here to live with us,
and I can do lots of things to earn money, and we can be just as happy
as anything. I ought to be the one to work for the rest anyhow, because
it must have been my knowing so much about oil wells that spoiled this
one. I never did feel like a real truly chump, but I thought perhaps you
and grandpapa could make up. I am afraid though the trouble was that it
was more my well than anybody else’s, and so you being chumps didn’t do
any good.”
“You are a dear, blessed little comforter!” cried Miss Hatty, throwing
her arms about her “Prince Dusty” and giving him a great hug. She even
smiled through her tears, whereupon the boy declared that he could
almost see a tiny rainbow at the ends of her eye-lashes.
Then the children went out, but it was only to walk soberly up to the
now silent derrick where it was so lonely, and seemed so queer, that
they did not care to stay long.