Without further incident of note, the _Lycoming_ ran on down the
Atlantic coast, passed through the Florida Straits, and bore straight
across the Gulf to her destination. When she was safely docked and the
process of unloading well under way, the big mate one day mounted the
ladder to the wireless house.
“Good-morning, Roy,” he said. “How would you like to take a little trip
over to the oil fields? I have to go over there for the captain and I’d
be glad to take you along.”
“How far is it, and how long will it take?” inquired Roy.
“About sixty miles, I suppose. It will likely take us two hours to run
over.”
“Thank you,” said Roy. “I’ll be mighty glad to go. I have never seen an
oil-well.”
They ferried across the bay to Port Bolivar and there took a train
for the oil fields. Soon Roy was very glad indeed that he had come.
Everything was different from what he was accustomed to at home. The
country was low and level. Nowhere was there an elevation that could be
called a hill. In the open spaces he could see for miles and miles over
the flat land. His view in this direction was almost as unlimited as it
was on the ocean. To Roy, accustomed as he was to hills and mountains,
this flat land seamed monotonous and uninteresting. In places he
saw herds of cattle on these open reaches, and cowboys galloping on
horseback. For a considerable stretch Roy and his comrade rode over the
bare, level prairie. Then they came to some bits of woodland.
“I never realized before,” said Roy, “how beautiful trees are. Look at
that fine grove over there.”
“Down here they call a grove like that a motte,” rejoined Roy’s
companion with a smile.
“A what?” ejaculated Roy in astonishment.
“A motte. It means a little grove of trees in a prairie.”
“Well, that’s a new one to me,” said Roy.
“You’ll run into lots more things that seem strange,” said the mate.
“You know you’re a long way from home. If you were in Europe, you’d be
in a foreign land at this distance from your home.”
“Well, I see something already that’s new. What ails the trees in that
‘motte’? They look as if somebody had hung veils or something on them.”
The first officer laughed. “You aren’t so far out of the way, Roy,” he
said, “only what you see is moss, and it was hung there by nature.”
“Moss!” exclaimed Roy. “Why, I never saw any moss like that. The stuff
must be a yard long.”
“Yes; and it’s moss. They call it Spanish moss, and sometimes it is
known as pirate’s beard. It often grows three feet long. In this part
of the world the trees are festooned with it. After a while we’ll take
a walk through a wood where it grows thick, and you’ll agree with me
that it is very beautiful.”
The train passed a number of ranch-houses, or rather a number were
visible at a distance. They were little, low structures, painted a
dazzling white. There was little or no shade about them, and it seemed
to Roy as though they must be unendurably hot, out there on the open
prairie with the blazing Texas sun beating down on them. Several of
these ranch-houses had curious, low trees near them that spread out
horizontally like enormous umbrellas. They caught Roy’s eye at once.
“What are those funny trees?” he demanded.
“Those are China-trees, Roy. They have quantities of colored berries
on them in the winter season, the juice of which is intoxicating.
Young robins often eat the berries and get drunk. Then they can be
knocked over with a stick, and, in consequence, many poor young robins
go into potpies down here. It is said that a robin that has once been
intoxicated by the berries will never touch them a second time, but I
don’t know how true it is.”
The railroad crossed several small streams. Along the course of each
were luxuriant growths of trees. Some of these were quite unfamiliar
to Roy. One species in particular caught his attention because of its
dark, glossy foliage.
“That is the live-oak,” explained Mr. Young. “It is really an
evergreen, although it has leaves like our deciduous trees.”
In about two hours the train drew near the oil fields. Mr. Young did
not have to tell Roy where they were, for Roy’s nose told him very
plainly. The air was redolent with crude oil.
“Phew!” cried Roy. “That’s pretty strong. I don’t believe I would like
to live in such a smell.”
“You’d soon get used to it,” replied the mate. “A person can get used
to anything, apparently, though I’ve sometimes wondered how anybody
could ever become accustomed to the smell of the factories where they
turn fish into oil and fertilizer. I was in one once near the Delaware
Breakwater.”
“If it smelled any worse than this,” laughed Roy, “I’m glad it’s near
the Delaware Breakwater. That’s quite close enough for me.”
When they got out of the train they walked toward the oil field. Roy
had seen pictures of the Pennsylvania oil fields, which were hardly
a hundred miles from his home. He expected to see a derrick here and
a derrick there, and so he was utterly amazed at what he now beheld.
Oil-derricks rose before him in dense masses. From a distance it seemed
to Roy that they were as close together as trees in a forest. There
were hundreds and hundreds of them. Instead of being spread out all
over the region they were crowded together. Mr. Young explained that
this was because the oil pocket was in that particular neighborhood. As
they drew nearer, they could see the pumps at work, the walking-beams
going rhythmically up and down.
But what amazed Roy perhaps even more than the mass of derricks
were the colonies of tanks to hold the oil. In every direction were
clusters of tanks. These were great, circular structures of steel,
each holding 30,000 gallons or more. Roy noticed that each group of
tanks was laid out with mathematical precision, like checkers standing
at even distances from one another on a checker-board. The idea was
emphasized by the fact that each tank had a dike or low wall of earth
thrown up about it in the form of a great square, like the lines in the
checker-board. Roy asked why the dikes were there.
“Sometimes an oil-tank catches fire,” said Mr. Young, “and the burning
oil gets out. If there is a dike about a tank the burning oil can’t
reach the tanks next to it and set them on fire.”
“It’s a good idea,” commented Roy.
“If ever you see a tank afire, you’ll think so,” said Mr. Young.
“Sometimes a tank explodes and showers burning oil all about. A tank
will burn for days, and the entire field is endangered as long as the
blaze lasts. Everything about an oil field is soaked with oil, you will
notice, and if a fire spreads, it may sweep over the entire field. That
has happened more than once. Whenever a tank gets afire, they begin at
once to pump the oil out of the tanks around it.”
Presently Roy caught sight of a great string of tank-cars. “Jiminy
crickets!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know there were so many oil cars in
the country. Why, there must be hundreds of them.”
“I suppose there are,” answered Mr. Young. “Do you see those racks
running along the tracks just beside the cars? Those are huge oil
pipes. They connect with oil-tanks somewhere. When a train is to be
filled, a connecting pipe is run out to each tank-car and the pumps are
started. They can load a hundred cars as easily as one.”
Presently a man on a buckboard dashed toward them, crying, “Here’s your
hot tamales. Just fresh out of the kettle.”
“Have you eaten a hot tamale, Roy?” asked Mr. Young.
“No,” said Roy. “I didn’t know they were things you ate. I thought that
was just a slang term.”
Mr. Young laughed and said, “We’ll try some. Then you’ll know what that
bit of slang means.”
He motioned to the vender, who raced over to them and pulled his horses
up short. They were bronchos and interested Roy. They were small but
apparently tough and wiry. Mr. Young bought two tamales and handed one
to Roy. The latter looked at it quizzically. He didn’t know whether
he was the victim of a joke or not; for what Mr. Young had given him
was a piece of a corn-husk. It was piping hot, and was wrapped around
something soft.
“Open it,” said Mr. Young.
Roy carefully unrolled the husk. Within was the steaming tamale. It was
a little cake of meal and minced meat, cooked in the husk. Roy took a
bite. There were tears in his eyes before he got it down.
“Great Cæsar!” he cried, “what’s in that?”
“Corn-meal, minced meat, cayenne pepper, and perhaps some other
things,” said Mr. Young.
“Principally pepper, I think,” said Roy, sucking in fresh air to cool
his burning mouth. Then, after a moment, he laughed. “I certainly do
know what that slang term means,” he said. “Whoever invented that dish,
anyway?”
“The Mexicans,” said Mr. Young. “There are a lot more Mexican dishes
you may want to try while you’re down here--enchiladas and chili con
carne, for instance.”
“Not for mine,” said Roy ruefully. “At least not if they are anything
like hot tamales.”
“They are,” laughed the first officer, “only more so. That’s one thing
I never could understand--why people in a country as hot as Mexico
should want to eat food as hot and greasy as the Mexicans like it, for
they use about as much lard as they do pepper.”
“I’m glad I’m not a Mexican,” laughed Roy.
They walked through the oil field to the headquarters of a drilling
company. Mr. Young transacted the business on which he had come. Roy,
meantime, wandered about, watching operations. He was particularly
interested in the digging of a great, round hollow near by. Hundreds of
men were at work in it, and scores of mules. With scrapers the men were
hollowing out a great circle and dragging the scooped-out earth up in a
mound that ran around it.
“What are they doing?” asked Roy when Mr. Young rejoined him.
“Building an earthen tank for oil,” replied the mate. “They will lay
planks to form the circular wall and back that up with the earth in the
mound. The roof will be of boards. The tank will hold several hundred
gallons and will be pretty much under ground. It’s a cheap way to build
a reservoir and it makes a pretty safe receptacle. Now we’ll go look at
that bit of woods I mentioned.”
They left the oil field and walked toward a woodland that was visible
at some distance. It proved to be extensive and lay along a little
stream of water. Roy was instantly attracted by the wonderful growths
of pirate’s beard. It was everywhere. In great festoons it hung from
the trees, giving the woods a misty, hazy look. Roy got hold of some
and examined it. The moss was like coarse, gray-green fibres more or
less loosely grown together. It reminded him of an old man’s beard and
he thought it was well named.
He admired the live-oaks with their picturesque growth and beautiful
leaves, so green and glossy. Here and there great bunches of mistletoe
with its yellow-green stems and leaves caught his eye. But what pleased
Roy most were the beautiful holly-trees. There were none in his part of
the country, but he had seen holly branches in the stores at Christmas
time and he instantly knew what they were. There were no red berries
on the trees at this season, but they were beautiful even without
the berries, with their smooth, gray trunks that reminded Roy of the
beeches in his own neighborhood, and the glossy, dark green leaves,
with their prickly edges. There were many other strange and interesting
growths, and Roy went back to the train feeling that he had been richly
repaid for his journey.
The return trip was made without incident and in due time Roy and his
friend found themselves back on the _Lycoming_. Captain Lansford nodded
to them as they came aboard and inquired pleasantly if Roy had enjoyed
the trip. Roy answered briefly, then went to the wireless house. His
heart was beating high. The captain had never said one word to him
concerning the fog and the part Roy had played in helping to prevent a
collision, but ever since that event he had seemed different to Roy.
His greeting now made Roy feel that perhaps at last he was making some
headway in his struggle to win the captain’s good-will. At any rate, he
felt sure that the captain no longer disliked him.