SAVED BY THE SIGN OF THE TRAMP.
It rarely happens, in real life, that people are lifted from the
profoundest depths of grief, poverty, and misfortune, to such heights of
joy and promised prosperity, as was the case with those whose fortunes
depended on the success or failure of the Dale-Dustin oil well, on the
memorable morning of Brace Barlow’s great shot. For many weeks they had
been weighed down by anxiety, and filled with mingled hopes and fears.
For hours they had been prostrated by what seemed utter and unavoidable
ruin. The night had been passed in hopeless sorrow, but in an instant it
was swept away. The rising sun, shining full on that gleaming column of
oil, hurling its mighty torrent from the mysterious recesses where it
had lain hidden for untold ages, filled their hearts with its gladness
and unspeakable glory. For some minutes they could only gaze upon the
scene that it disclosed with incredulous wonder and amazement.
To Colonel Dale and his niece, who had never before witnessed the
shooting of an oil well, the sight was a miracle, and they were at a
loss to account for it.
To Arthur and Brace Barlow, who had not dared hope for such wonderful
results from their torpedo, that golden fountain of oil was at the
moment the most beautiful and desirable thing on earth.
At length, withdrawing his fascinated gaze from it, Arthur saw his
grandfather standing bareheaded, bewildered, and motionless, near the
open door of the frame house. Running to him the excited boy flung
himself into his arms, crying:
“Oh, grandpapa, we’ve shot the ‘duster’ and turned it into the most
beautiful ‘gusher’ that ever was seen! Isn’t it perfectly splendid! And
we are the very most genuine kind of ‘chumps,’ after all, aren’t we? And
I never was so happy in all my life! Were you, grandpapa?”
“No, my boy, I don’t believe I ever was,” answered Colonel Dale, in a
voice almost choked with emotion, “unless it was when you came to me to
be the joy and pride of my old age.”
Then Miss Hatty, who had hastily dressed herself, came running
down-stairs; and she cried and laughed at the same time, as she threw
her arms about the boy and called him her young “oil Prince,” and
declared that he was the dearest, and wisest, and most lovable oil
Prince in all the world.
Beside them stood shy little Cynthia, gazing at the marvel with wide
open eyes, half-frightened and not knowing what to say, but thrilled
with the great happiness and excitement of those about her.
In the meantime hundreds of barrels of the precious oil were pouring
down the hillside and going to waste, in a yellow stream that fretted
and sparkled and tumbled in miniature cascades over the rocks like a
runaway mountain brook. Several men from the neighboring farms,
attracted by the noise of the explosion and the hoarse roar of the
escaping oil and gas, now came hurrying to the spot. Followed by these,
Brace Barlow started toward the derrick to see what could be done to
check the furious torrent and direct it into the empty tanks.
Colonel Dale was about to join them; but, stopped by a sudden thought,
he turned to Arthur and asked him if he could ride to the telegraph
office five miles away and send an important despatch.
“Of course I can, sir,” answered the boy promptly, for after his
experience of that morning he felt that he could do almost anything.
So a message that had been previously thought out was hastily written.
Arthur was charged to make all speed with it and, above all, not to
mention a word of what had taken place at the Dale-Dustin well that
morning to anybody.
As Colonel Dale had found it necessary to ride about the country a great
deal on business connected with the well, he had purchased the horse
that Arthur now rode when they first came there. It was a fine animal,
and the Colonel valued it highly, besides having grown very fond of it.
Now as, unmindful of Arthur’s light weight, it galloped swiftly and
easily along the lonely forest roads, it seemed to fully share its young
rider’s happiness and impatience. Faster and faster they flew, the horse
tossing his head and pulling at the bit, while the boy’s cheeks became
flushed with excitement. His eyes sparkled, and as the fresh morning air
whistled past him it seemed filled with happy fancies. It was a glorious
ride, and he was enjoying it to the utmost when it was interrupted in a
most disagreeable and unexpected manner.
In the very loneliest part of the road, about half way to the village,
two ragged, evil-looking men suddenly sprang out from the bushes by
which they had been concealed. One of them succeeded in seizing the
bridle of Arthur’s horse, and though the startled animal reared and
plunged so as to almost unseat his young rider, the man managed to
retain his hold. When the horse at last became quiet this man said:
“The walking is good enough for young legs like yours, sonny, so I
reckon you’d better light down and lend us this hoss for a bit. My pard
here is lame, so that he can’t keep up with the procession very well,
and we’re in a hurry to get along.”
“But I am in a hurry too,” answered Arthur, trying to speak bravely and
to control the fear that had driven every bit of color from his cheeks.
“And I am going to the village on very important business.”
“It must be _very_ important,” said the tramp with a disagreeable laugh.
“Yes,” spoke up the other, “I reckon it’s as important as buying a stick
of candy; but that’s nothing to the importance of our business. We’re
walking delegates of the society of independent tramps, we are, and our
business can’t wait. So tumble down out of that saddle, young feller,
without wasting any more of our walyable time. If yer don’t I’ll pull
yer down; for we’ve got to have this ere hoss.”
The word “tramp” was as an inspiration to Arthur, and he answered
boldly: “If you steal my horse I shall tell my friend, Sandy Grimes, the
very next time I see him, and he will make you send it back, besides
making you very sorry that you dared do such a thing.”
“What do you know about Sandy Grimes?” asked the man who had the bridle,
while they both looked so uneasily at each other that it was evident the
name was one they knew and feared.
“He is a friend of mine,” replied Arthur, “and he told me I was to
mention his name if any tramps like you ever tried to bother me.”
“How are you going to prove you are a friend of Sandy’s?” asked one of
the men. “You don’t look over much like one of his kind.”
“I’ll prove it this way,” answered the quick-witted boy. As he spoke, he
drew a bit of pencil, and the despatch he was to deliver, from his
pocket. On the back of the latter he made the symbol M̥, that the big
tramp, with whose boy he had fought months before, had shown him.
The two tramps look at it in amazement. “Yes, that’s Sandy’s mark,” said
one of them at length; “there’s no going back on that. But I don’t see
how he ever come to give it to the likes of you. However, seeing that
you’ve got it, and claims Sandy for a friend, I suppose we’ve got to let
you and the hoss go. You’ll have to give us every cent of money that’s
about your clothes, though, for my pard ’ll have to pay his railroad
fare, if he can’t have a hoss to ride.”
Arthur had a dollar that his grandfather had given him, to pay for
sending the telegram, and this he willingly gave up. Then, after the men
had made him turn all his pockets inside out to show that he had no more
money, they let go of his horse’s bridle, and in another moment he had
dashed out of their reach and sight.
[Illustration: “YES, THAT’S SANDY’S MARK,” SAID ONE OF THEM, “THERE’S NO
GOING BACK ON THAT.” (_Page 272._)]
It was an ugly adventure, and one that might have ended seriously for
him, if the boy had lost his head, or allowed his fright to get the
better of him. But, as has been said before, Arthur was not one of the
boys who lose their heads in times of danger, and once more his coolness
and courage had saved him.