AN OIL SCOUT OUTWITTED.
Arthur reached the telegraph office without further mishap; but, to his
dismay, the operator refused to send his message unless it was
prepaid,—and he had no money. In spite of Arthur’s pleadings that he
would do so, and of his offer to go home, get the money, and bring it
immediately back with him, the operator steadily refused to send the
despatch, saying that it was against the rules to accept a collect
message from a stranger.
A young man, who was waiting in the office for a train, and who
recognized Arthur as a grandson of the owner of the Dale-Dustin well,
listened with interest to this discussion. At length he stepped up to
the boy, saying: “I know who you are, and I’ll pay for that despatch,
rather than have you put to any inconvenience. You can send the money to
me at any time by postal note, you know. Let me see how many words there
are?”
With this the stranger glanced over Arthur’s telegram, as though to
count the number of words, at the same time drawing a handful of change
from his pocket.
“You must write it out on a regular blank,” said the operator; and this
the stranger kindly did for Arthur, crumpling up the original when he
had finished, and holding it carelessly in his hand, as though there
were no further use for it.
Just then the train came along, and the obliging young man hurried away,
without giving Arthur his address, or even having told his name.
He was the oil scout, who had hidden beside the Dale-Dustin derrick all
night, and thereby learned that the well was a dry hole. When he was
comfortably seated in the car, he drew forth the crumpled original of
the telegram, and again read it. It was:
“To R. Sims,
“Petroleum Exchange,
“Oil City, Pennsylvania:
“Have not struck the oil yet in any quantities. The well now is
proving everything bad; but fear a regular duster.
“ARTHUR DALE.”
“Well, if that isn’t one of the clumsiest despatches I ever read,”
soliloquized the oil scout. “He seems to have tried to work in all the
words he could. How absurd to send news like that, twenty-four hours
after all the world knew it. I should say that the old Colonel was a
little off his base. Perhaps his disappointment has affected his mind. I
must drop in on Sims and congratulate him on getting such early
information. I’ll make him repay me the money I spent on that telegram,
too.”
Then the scout dismissed the subject from his mind, and turned to the
morning paper in which, among other items of oil news, he read of the
collapse of the Dale-Dustin mystery, and found himself spoken of in
highly complimentary terms as having been the first to discover its true
condition.
“That’s the ticket,” he said to himself, “and it certainly ought to
induce a raise of salary. I shall take care that my bosses see that
notice, and if they don’t come down with something handsome, it won’t be
my fault or because their duty is not made clear to them.”
About three o’clock that afternoon, after having stopped at several
other places, the scout reached Oil City, and sauntered into the office
of R. Sims, broker.
“How are you, Sims?” he inquired carelessly, throwing himself into an
arm-chair. “What’s the latest from Dale-Dustin?”
“Everything is lovely there,” answered the broker, who was looking
particularly happy and well satisfied at that moment.
“How’s that?”
“Why, she’s flowing right along, and I got a despatch early this morning
that gave me a good three hours’ start on the market. It’s been a mighty
lucky day for Colonel Dale, and not a bad one for yours truly, I can
tell you. I shouldn’t be surprised if we’d netted a cool hundred
thousand. By the way, your company got badly left! How did that happen?
I thought you were on the spot. The other boys said you were to stay
there until to-day.”
During these remarks the face of the scout grew white and red by turns.
Now he sprang from his chair in a state of the greatest agitation,
crying: “What do you mean, man? The Dale-Dustin is a dry hole! What sort
of a telegram did you receive this morning?”
“Dry hole! well, I should smile!” exclaimed the broker. “There is the
first despatch that I got this morning, and I have had several since
confirming it.”
With this he handed to the scout a telegraph form on which was written:
“To R. Sims, Petroleum Exchange,
“Oil City, Pennsylvania:
“Have ¬not¬ struck ¬the¬ oil ¬yet¬ in ¬any¬ quantities. ¬The¬ well
¬now¬ is ¬proving¬ everything ¬bad¬ but ¬fear¬ a ¬regular¬ duster.
“ARTHUR DALE.”
“You see,” explained Mr. Sims, “we were afraid some of you scouts might
bribe the operator, or get hold of our despatches in some way. So we
arranged to have all messages referring to the well read just the
opposite of what was really meant, until every other word was crossed
out. Then you see it comes out all right.”
“Oh! it comes out all right, does it?” groaned the scout as he hastily
left the office. “Well, it may be for you, but I am afraid it is all
wrong for me.”
When Arthur returned to the farm after sending his despatch, and with a
keen appetite for the breakfast Miss Hatty had saved for him, he found
that the great stream of oil had been just got under control, and was
rapidly filling the tanks prepared to receive it. He also found a large
gang of men at work laying, with all possible speed, a line of pipe from
the Dale-Dustin tanks to a pumping station of the great seaboard pipe
line that fortunately was located less than a mile away.
The shutting in of that marvellous well was a task that taxed the best
energies of Brace Barlow and those who labored with him to their utmost
for several hours. When it was finally completed it was a feat to be
proud of. Colonel Dale, appreciating the magnitude of the task, offered
$400 reward to any one who should succeed in completing it. Stimulated
by this, Brace and three other men immediately undertook it.
It was a fearful thing to venture into those floods of falling oil and
clouds of suffocating gas; but, in the oil region, men become accustomed
to such perils. Stripping to the waist, these four boldly entered the
derrick, from the sides of which the boarding had previously been torn
away.
There they battled with the rushing torrent, which every now and then
flung them and their appliances to one side as though they were
jackstraws. Occasionally one, or all of them, would dash out for a few
breaths of fresh air, and to rid their lungs of the deadly gases that
hung low over the derrick. Then they would return to the fight, and toil
with the energy and strength of giants.
At length, under a pressure of nearly three thousand pounds, the
oil-saver was slowly forced down upon the fierce stream until its cap
finally met the casing head. A moment later the set screws were turned,
and the torrent of oil was discharging through four two-inch pipes into
the waiting tanks. Its force was as great as though it were impelled by
the pump of a steam fire-engine, and the pipes through which it
discharged throbbed and vibrated under the terrible pulsations of the
flow.
As the men who had accomplished this task came from the derrick, reeking
with the oil, they flung themselves to the ground, so thoroughly
exhausted with their long struggle that, for nearly an hour, they could
not be persuaded to move.
Now the pipe must be hurried to its completion before the tanks
overflowed. More men and more teams must be procured. The well could not
be closed, or the fierce pressure of the imprisoned oil and gas would
blow out its casing, and the waste would be enormous. The tanks were
filling at the rate of five hundred barrels an hour in spite of all
restrictions that could with safety be placed upon the flow, so that in
four hours’ time they would be full and running over. So messengers were
sent in all directions for more men and teams, until the whole country
side was engaged on the work.
Shortly after noon it was finished, and oil from the wonderful
Dale-Dustin well was finding its way into the tanks of the great pipe
line that would convey it to the distant seaboard refineries.
For months this magnificent well poured out thousands of barrels of oil
daily, but after a while it settled down to a steady stream of about
five hundred barrels in each twenty-four hours, which yield, with very
slight diminution, was continued for several years.
When the wearied, but happy occupants of the little farmhouse, retired
that night their prospects for the future were as bright and as full of
promise as, but a few hours before, they had been sad and gloomy. The
well had already more than paid for itself, and it was rapidly yielding
them a fortune at the rate of $1,500 for each hour of the day and night.
Their days of poverty had come to an end, and wealth was literally
flowing in upon them.
It was impossible for Arthur to realize the full meaning of what was
happening for his benefit; but his grandfather and cousin did, and their
rejoicings were more for his sake than for their own. Even they,
however, could have no conception of the effect that the opening of the
Dale-Dustin Well was to have upon that whole region, nor of the magical
changes that were to take place on that lonely farm within a few days.