OFF FOR THE OIL FIELDS
TOM GRINNED at the earnestness in Ned’s tone.
“Don’t be worried, old boy,” he said. “We’ll give all the attention to
business that it needs. But if on the side we can at the same time help
an old fellow along, why shouldn’t we? But that’s a matter that we can
settle when we come to it. All we have to do now is to get ready for the
trip.”
Before he left for Texas, Tom went up again to the hospital to get news
of the young aviator.
“Oh, he’s getting along,” replied Dr. Sherwood to Tom’s question. “That
is, physically. His leg has mended, though he still has to use a cane.
But his head isn’t clear yet. He can’t talk intelligently. As a matter
of fact, perhaps he never will.”
“You don’t mean that he may be insane for the rest of his life!”
exclaimed Tom, genuinely shocked.
“That’s among the possibilities,” affirmed the doctor. “Though
considering his youth and vitality—he’s a strong young fellow—the
chances are that he’ll recover. Still, no one can tell. You can go out
and take a look at him yourself if you like. He’s sunning himself on a
bench in the garden.”
Tom went out and seated himself on the bench beside the invalid. He had
a good look at him for the first time under anything like normal
conditions. The young aviator had evidently been sinewy and stalwart
when in health, judging from his frame, though now thin from his long
illness. His face must have been a pleasant one, though marred now by
the vacant look in his eyes.
Tom tried to get in conversation with him.
“How are you, Hillobie?” he asked, using the name at a venture.
The boy looked at him without any sign of interest and made no reply.
Tom tried again several times but fruitlessly, and at last had to give
it up. He left the hospital in a depressed mood, wondering if, after
all, he had done the young man a real service in saving his life. Of
what use was life without reason?
The Swift Construction Company hurried things along, and in about a week
Tom was ready for the start. The young inventor had decided to take Koku
with him, as his great strength and loyal devotion might prove
invaluable. The giant was in great glee and grinned from ear to ear when
apprised of Tom’s decision, but Rad was thoroughly disgusted.
“To hev dat big chunk o’ beef clutterin’ up the plane!” he snorted.
“Doan know whut you must be t’inkin’ uv, Marse Tom.”
“But don’t you see, Rad,” said Tom soothingly, trying to keep a serious
face, “that I wouldn’t dare go off and leave this place alone without
you to take care of things? How could I have an easy minute unless I
could keep saying to myself: ‘Everything’s all right at home. Rad’s on
the job?’”
The old negro bridled up proudly.
“Guess yo’s right, Marse Tom,” he chuckled, all his resentment
vanishing. “Didn’t see it dat way befo’. Takes brains to run dis yere
house. An’ when it cums to brains, dat big grampus Koku ain’t dere.
Nussah, he jes’ ain’t dere.”
So peace was reëstablished between Tom’s faithful retainers, each of
whom thought the other had special reason to envy him.
At last all was ready. Tom had had a long and tender interview with
Mary, the final directions had been given for the running of the works
during the absence of Tom and Ned, and one bright morning, with many of
Tom’s friends and all the workmen assembled to bid the voyagers
Godspeed, the _Winged Arrow_ rose like a huge bird from the grounds of
the plant, soared high in air to the altitude of two thousand feet, and
turned her nose toward the oil fields of Texas.
Tom had figured that, barring accidents and with ordinary good luck, he
would be able to reach his destination on the following day. This was
asking a good deal of the _Winged Arrow_, but the result justified Tom’s
confidence. The engines ran like a dream, the weather was superb,
neither fog nor storm intervened, and on the afternoon of the following
day those in the airship sighted the town of which they were in search.
It lay beneath them sprawling in the heat of the Texas sun, one of the
hastily built pioneer towns that spring up like magic in the wake of an
oil strike. It was a mere collection of wooden shacks that looked as
though little more than a breath would be required to blow them down.
But they sufficed for the immediate needs of the hardy adventurers who
were seeking a quick road to fortune. Many had found it, many more hoped
to find it. The man “stony broke” in the morning might be a millionaire
before night.
Tom circled about, looking for a likely landing place. This was not a
matter of much difficulty, for there was a host of open spaces on the
outskirts of the town. He soon found one suited to his purpose, and the
_Winged Arrow_ came down as softly as a swan.
Scarcely had she stopped before the passengers were out on the ground,
stretching their cramped legs on Texas soil. It was a delightful change
after their long confinement in the plane. The warmth, too, was
congenial, contrasting as it did so strongly with the chill of the upper
air. They were in high spirits over the successful termination of the
flight. Tom and Ned laughed aloud, and Koku was one broad grin.
“So far, so good,” remarked Tom, patting the _Winged Arrow_ proudly.
“You certainly are the goods, old girl. Now for the town and a hot meal.
You’ll have to stay here and mind the plane, Koku, but we’ll see that
you get yours later.”
In a few minutes they were in the town. It was their first experience in
such surroundings, and they looked about them curiously.
There was no pretence at order or regularity in the shacks that served
as dwellings and business houses. It seemed as though they had been
built wherever the traveler had dropped his pack. There was one main
street, a long, straggling, crooked thoroughfare, from which a number of
smaller streets branched off here and there at irregular intervals. The
houses were of the rudest description. Two or three men and one day
would have sufficed to build most of them. Many of them were of the
one-story type with one or two rooms and earth floors. Others, more
pretentious, had two stories, the lower part occupied for business
purposes and the upper floor as a residence. Let the mere tail-end of a
Texas norther come along and they would all have been leveled to the
ground like a pack of cards.
Most of the “business” houses were saloons and dance halls. The
prohibition law was largely a dead letter as far as Copperhead was
concerned. From almost every door the young men passed came the rattle
of dice and the clink of bottle against glass, the wheeze of an old
accordion or raucous jazz music from a phonograph.
Through the main street passed an almost endless column of wide-wheeled
trucks with tugging horses straining in the harness, the trucks
themselves loaded with iron casings, and, some of them, with red flags
at the back, carrying enough nitro-glycerine to blow the town sky-high
in the event of a collision. Weaving in and out of these were dusty
automobiles, mule carts driven by negroes, “buggies,” every kind of
conveyance, some of them looking as though they dated back to
Revolutionary times. Other vehicles were parked in rows about saloons,
on the front porches of which loungers sat in tipped-back chairs.
And derricks! There were derricks everywhere, some of them in the town
itself, in back yards where the precious fluid had been discovered. Some
of the buildings were plastered with oil that had spattered against them
in a black flood when a strike had been made. And all about the town for
as far as the eye could reach rose a multitude of derricks in a perfect
forest, towering, some of them, to the height of eighty or a hundred
feet.
Through the roughly dressed multitudes that thronged the principal
street, Tom and Ned threaded their way. Airplanes had become common in
that locality, and no one paid any especial attention to the aviator
suits in which the youths were clad. There was little choice as to
restaurants. None of them was good, and it was only a question of which
was the least bad. Even this could not be determined at a glance, and
the lads finally entered one that seemed to be at least no worse than
the others.
Nor was there much choice as to food. The rough-looking waiter in a
dirty apron told them they could have corned beef and cabbage or ham and
eggs. They ordered the latter, which soon made their appearance,
accompanied by cups of weak, muddy coffee. Then, while they ate, they
looked curiously about them.
The restaurant, like all others in the town, was only an adjunct to a
saloon, and the sale of drinks was much more profitable than that of
food. Before the bar a long line of the thirsty stood.
Suddenly Ned nudged Tom.
“Look who’s here,” he whispered.