Dr. A. P. Lapham presided over a packed gathering in the opera house—and
appointed a committee of five to confer with the promoters. The
committee met in the Thorn-burrow bank. The promoters came up with
a contract whereby they would undertake to raise the funds for the
completion of the well, against numerous and assorted requirements by
“the people” of Wetmore.
I was offered the trusteeship—but I declined to accept it. I think
the reason the committee offered it to me was because I had been the
trustee—with no part in the promotion—of a block of eight hundred acres
of oil leases in Elk and Chautauqua Counties, purchased from Charley
Cortner, salesman, of Iola, and Dr. C. E. Shaffer, vendor, of Moline, by
our Wetmore group, at $10 an acre, with further obligation of $1.00 per
acre yearly rentals, for five years, which had been carried through to a
successful termination, with no gain to the “investors” and a loss to me
of only $85—aside from my $250 first come-in and my part of the rentals,
$25 a year, through payments of rentals in general, as trustee, in
excess of collections. I had to collect four hundred dollars twice a
year from fifty-three people—and I didn’t quite make it. I therefore
regarded the trusteeship now offered me as not a desirable recognition.
To keep the record straight, I shall now give with a little more
enlightenment. I actually had a little velvet in the Shaffer oil
deal—leastwise it looked like velvet at the time. Not for promotional
influence—but for services rendered, and to be rendered.
I went with Charley Cortner, the salesman, and three other Wetmore men
to the Moline oil field—paid my own expenses, even to transportation
equal to railroad fare, and therefore was beholden to no one. The Moline
acreage adjoined a block of leases on which the discovery well, a
small producer, had recently been brought in. There was, however, big
production—and growing bigger every day—at Eldorado, where we stopped
on the way down to get our appetites (for oil speculation) whetted. I
wanted to go in with them, of course.
You know, should you pass up an opportunity to go in with the home folks
on something that was to pan out big, you would always feel that God had
given you less sense than He had given your more fortunate neighbors.
And, should you strive to live down the mistake, there would always be
lucky ones to remind you of your dumbness. The hope of oil-money was in
my system. Had been hankering to get in with the home folks on something
good for a long time.
When reminiscing for entertainment, as well as for record of historic
fact, with no particular theme to exploit, you will, doubtless, agree
that it is permissible—nay, oft-times necessary, to break all the rules
laid down by learned teachers; such as to never let one incident call up
another. And, if you don’t agree—you are going to get it now, anyway.
Aside from the matter in hand, I may say that only a short time before
this, I had been denied the chance to go with a Wetmore group on an
inspection trip to another oil field in southern Kansas—because I had
not as yet signed up, as they had, for an interest in the lease. Well,
the energetic young salesman, after securing pledges enough here to put
him in the clear, went ahead of the boys to the headquarters and bought
the lease, at a discount, on partial payment, using his own money,
which, had all gone well, should have netted him more than the promised
commission. He intended, of course, to deliver the lease to the group up
here at the contract price, or rather the pledged commitments, with
only a few amounts yet to be peddled, or held in his own name, at his
discretion. But the Wetmore group—the boys who had said that to let me
go with them on the inspection trip without first making a commitment,
would be unfair to those who had signed up—turned down the deal, cold.
Then, after returning home, the group heard rumors of lawsuits—and
counter suits. The lease vendor was demanding payment in full, and the
poor boy-salesman could not raise the money.
Charley Cortner, the salesman earlier mentioned in this writing, had
been here for five or six months selling life insurance. He was a
whole-souled, persuasive, sort of man who had made many friends here.
Cortner and Dr. J. R. Purdum, in whose car the trip to Moline had been
made, went out among the people and in almost no time secured pledges
for nearly enough money to take over the Shaffer leases. They were
selling interests in $125 “units.” But, at the finish, to accommodate
all the eager applicants, some subscriptions were taken for as little as
$50 and $25—sub-divisions of a unit.
When they came to me—at the corn-house, where I had been sorting out
seed corn—I surprised them (and maybe shocked them, too) by declining
to subscribe. Not that I didn’t want to get in on the big prospect—but
because, as I believe, it was an improper if not a dangerous way to form
a syndicate. Somewhere I had acquired the notion that if fifty people
chipped in and bought a thing that it would take fifty people to sell
it. But I didn’t tell them this until after they had “flared up” and had
their say. They started to quit me, in disgust—but the Doctor, who was
regarded among my best friends, thinking to erase some of the unkind
comment, said, “Well, John, when you get through sorting your sour corn,
come and see us—we’ll save some units for you.” My corn was not “sour”
corn. It was well matured, and making an average of eighty bushels, with
some acres on grubbed ground making 125 bushels.
Now, for a little laughable reaction within a none too laughable story.
The Farmers Union elevator manager, a farmer not so long out of the
corn rows, refused to buy my culled corn, said it would be unfair to his
company to permit me to take out the best ears. After I had sent several
loads to the Netawaka elevator, as it accumulated in the house, after
taking out only about ten per cent, the Farmers Union manager came over
to the corn house, looked at the culled corn we were loading out at the
moment, saying he guessed maybe he had made a mistake in refusing to buy
the culled corn. The culled corn was far better than the general run
of corn brought to market that year. It was an improved strain of Boone
County White, which would shell out equal to Reid’s Yellow Dent.
While still at the corn-house that day of the Purdum-Cortner call,
Charley had an inspiration. He said, “Why couldn’t you write something
for us like you think we ought to have?” I said, “I can try—but it will
have to be approved by an attorney before you can use it. I don’t want
to cook up something that might get our people in trouble.”
But did I—or did I not?
Charley said, “Can you get at it right away?” So the “sour” corn sorting
was postponed until another day—and I went to my home at 11:15. My
typewriter and writing desk were in an alcove up stairs. I had hardly
gotten the corn-dust and the insult to my purebred seed corn, which had
been engendered within the hour at the seed house out of my system when
my wife came to the stair door and said dinner was ready. I had no time
for dinner. The necessary words had not come to me readily. Charley
came at 12:30, sat close to me, in a more pleasant mood with occasional
verbal expression indicating the reason for the improvement. But he
was careful to hold back the main reason. His presence didn’t help in
furthering the writing. However, we got away at the appointed time—one
o’clock. No dinner.
Fred Woodburn, the corporation-wise member of Wood-burn & Woodburn,
lawyers, Holton, Kansas, approved my draft, as written, with one
exception. I had made provision for transfer of units. Fred said it
would break the partnership. And, may I say, before I forget it, that
I was censured for being so careless as to omit making provision for
transfers—and this, too, by an individual who, as you will hereinafter
see recorded, found fault with my correct line of reasoning in another
instance—correct as in reference to the one incident, understand.
I’m not trying to “hand” myself a bouquet. The agreement cooked up by me
was neither “air tight” nor “fool proof.” The Trustee had not a chance.
The error was that I did not require the subscribers to include in their
checks a sufficiency to take care of their rentals for the full life
of the leases. True, there was the chance that rental payments might be
legitimately discontinued before the expiration of the lease, as in case
of production terminating the payments, or disposition of the lease. But
it would have been a lot simpler and safer too for the Trustee to return
the unearned portion of the lease money.
Charley Cortner paid the Woodburns for writing a new draft of the
agreement—and asked me, on the road home, for my charge. I told him, “No
charge.” He thanked me kindly. He felt good of course—but I could see he
had not yet got all he needed to allay a worry, the thing that had hit
them so hard at the corn-house.
Unauthorized, and unknown to me, in soliciting subscriptions, it seems,
they had carried the impression, if not the promise, that I would be
the Trustee—possibly demanded by some of the prospects. After miles of
silence on the road, Charley said, “You know, I feel so good about this
that I’m going to give you one unit; you can have it in cash, or in
stock in the syndicate.” From the ultra pleased expression on his face
when I said I would take it in stock, I’m sure he had been holding his
breath awaiting my decision.
True, I had not as yet agreed to accept the Trusteeship—in fact, I knew
nothing about their plans—but I was now as good as in, and they could,
at least, make a plausible showing at the called meeting in the City
Hall the following night, when the vendor would appear in person to
deliver the leases. Charley’s gift to me was acceptable grapes—equal to
$4.50 a line, or 45 cents a word for the writing. I really wanted to
get in, and would have subscribed for an interest, anyway—now that
apparently a safe and workable organization would be formed.
Well, Doctor Shaffer spent much of his time here in my home. He was
agreeably pleased over Charley Cortner’s work, with my assistance in
preparing the agreement—and said so in no unmistakable terms. He had a
pleasant word for my wife, too.
In an aside, I will say, that while in Moline on that inspection trip, I
was troubled with a slight attack of appendicitis—which had been chronic
with me for twenty years, and still is—and had gotten temporary relief
from the Doctor. Dr. Shaffer now said that should I ever decide to have
an operation, for me to come down to Moline, and bring my wife along,
that she could stay in the hospital—all free of charge. This was by far
the best offer I had ever had.
First, I might say Dr. Sam Murbock, our old reliable, had said he could
not tell me what his charge would be until he got into me. I told him
that he would never get into me, or my pocket, without first naming his
price.
Also, when a guest at the Stratford hotel in Kansas City, Dr. Pickerel,
of the Stratford, went with me to the University Hospital early one
morning. He said he would sit awhile in the lobby and he would spot
the surgeons as they came in. I passed three of them, trying to get my
nerves settled.
The fourth one was more in general appearance to my idea of what a good
surgeon should look like. He was called—and we went up stairs to a room.
On examination, Dr. Jabes Jackson, Kansas City’s top-notch surgeon,
said I was just right for the operation. I asked him what would be his
charge? He said, “One thousand dollars!” I told him that I would have
to be a lot sicker before I would think of giving up a thousand dollars.
Then, Dr. Pickerel said, “He doesn’t come under that class, doctor.” Dr.
Jabes then said, “Three hundred—that’s the lowest.”
Again, while at the Byram hotel in Atchison I had a severe attack in
the night—and believed that the time had come when I should have the old
appendix taken out. I called for Atchison’s foremost surgeon. He was in
Kansas City, but would be back at one o’clock. I went up to the Atchison
hospital in the forenoon, asked for a little “home” treatment. In bed,
the nurse felt my “tummy,” shook her head, and said, “You will have to
wait for your doctor.” The doctor said I could have the caster oil
and an enema—but he told the nurse I was to have no breakfast. In the
morning, I was feeling pretty good and was about out of the notion of
having the operation. However, I asked the doctor what would be his
charge? He said, “You are most too weak to stand it now. Come back in a
week—we’ll talk it over then.” One week later, the doctor said, “Owing
to your long residence in the state, and your standing in the community,
I’ll do it for five hundred dollars.” I recalled that our old Nemaha
County reliable had done the job for one of my friends for a very
reasonable fee, and also remembered that he had charged others less
reasonable. I said, “If and when the time comes, I’ll just give you
$150.” He said, “I’ll do it—but if you ever tell anybody, I’ll kick your
butt all over town.” You may know that we were on quite intimate terms,
having on earlier occasions met at Atchison’s friendly club—or he
wouldn’t have dared to talk to me like that.
Back in my home again, after enthusiastically discussing the likely
prospect of the new oil field. Doctor Shaffer went out on the street to
mingle with his boys, and the prospects who were now coming in from
as far away as Holton, Circleville, Soldier, Corning, Goff, Netawaka,
Whiting, Sabetha, and intervening farms—including my long-time friend
Tommy Evans, whose farm north of Capioma had the reputation of being the
best kept and most productive in the neighborhood—saying he (the doctor)
would be back soon. My wife said, “It looked like your promoter friends
have all ready unintentionally cut you in on the big melon should you
be mindful to follow up the lead—and wish to be bothered with the
Trusteeship.” She laughed, “If you don’t make that Doctor Shaffer cut
you in for a generous slice you are not as smart as I think you are.”
Well, maybe I needed this tip—and maybe I didn’t.
Doctor Shaffer came back, and without more preliminaries, proposed to
cut me in for two units ($250) if I would prepare him two copies in
blank, of the agreement I had cooked up for the home syndicate, and,
incidentally, permit Cortner and Purdum to make good on their promise to
the subscribers that I would be the Trustee. He said they were expecting
it, and desired to have my acceptance before going into the meeting.
Thus, I wouldn’t rightly know to whom I was indebted for the generous
slice of the melon.
Or was it a melon?
I suspect it was as Myrtle had said, unintentionally cooked up by the
two solicitors—and that, in its final phase, it was a joint settlement,
with the solicitors having to kick back a portion of their rake-off.
Anyway, it was more unsolicited grapes for me—twice over the $4.50 a
line, or 45 cents a word for the original draft. I used a carbon and
made the two new copies at once, while Doctor Shaffer waited. He had
another sale on with a Missouri group.
Fifty-three subscribers crowded into the City Hall, and all signed the
agreement, and each set down the amount of his subscription opposite
his name—and all wrote checks. At the finish I had fifty-three checks
totaling $8,000—my own check for $250, and Doctor Shaffer’s check for
$1,000, included. Doctor Shaffer would reimburse me for this $250 and
also pay me the $125 promised by Charley Cortner. I was instructed to
send payment for the lease in two $4,000 bank drafts. I had no intention
of paying out $8,000 until those checks had time to be cleared. In the
meantime our attorney had called for complete abstracts to the acreage
instead of the certificates of title supplied by the vendor—delaying
settlement for several weeks.
But the eight thousand dollar payment was made, and I received the $375
velvet from Doctor Shaffer—I guess. For reasons of his own, unknown to
me, Dr. Shaffer had a Wichita man mail me his personal check for $375,
nothing more. I suspect one of those $4,000 drafts had been deposited in
a Wichita bank. The transaction was legitimate. I had nothing to
cover up. This payment to me had come off the salesman and the vendor,
negotiated subsequent to the pledges made by syndicate members—leaving
their full “investment” intact to work out its own salvation.
This is the God’s truth—and mine, too.
Now, kindly figure out for me, if you can, where anyone had been worsted
through my part in the transaction. Two “bright” young clerks in the
bank here—whom I shall not name—caught it at once. That mysterious $375
check had alerted them. They put their own erroneous construction on
it—and passed the word along. Then I caught “hail Columbia” from the
younguns’ superior (in point of banking tenure) who had “invested $125
in his wife’s name—the idea being that a banker himself ought to have
more sense than to dabble in such matters. His “boys,” as he called
them, meant well, of course—and it didn’t take me too long to convince
the banker that I had taken no part in the promotion. But, what if I
had? It would not have been a crime. I want to say, however, that the
banker did me the favor of trying to correct the false impressions he
had helped set afloat. Once in a blue moon even the worst of us will
meet such a manful man.
In this story I only aim to hit the high spots—not, at any time,
deviating from the truth. It was not all easy sailing for the Trustee.
In a case of this kind, the conscientious person representing his
friends, does not wish to let them down because of failure to collect
rentals in full. With syndicate members widely scattered, the Trustee
must make his own decisions—and quick. He can put up the delinquent
amount himself, or he can forfeit the lease—if he does not wish to raise
the ire of his friends who have paid.
Our syndicate was in reality an unfinanced holding partnership—barred
from creating indebtedness, euphoniously christened “The Elkmore Oil and
Gas Syndicate.” Here, I must give the wife credit—if, in the long run
it really merited credit—for suggesting this expressive name, which
embraces, in split infinitives, the location of the lease holdings
(Elk County) and the home (Wetmore) of the “investors.” It pleased Dr.
Shaffer—no end. I think it got Myrtle included in that proposed free
entertainment at his hospital in Moline.
Like Doctor Purdum’s good natured crack at my purebred seed corn, those
altruistically donated helpings of “grapes” showered on me by Cortner
and Shaffer, had begun to “sour”—and, I may say, that they deteriorated
until less than nothing was left of the windfall. It posed a perplexing
dilemma.
As there was little chance of getting action before the expiration of
the leases, aggravated by draggy collections of rentals, a feeler
was mailed to all subscribers, in ample time before the fifth year’s
payments were due. More than half of them favored dropping the leases,
and sent me their written authorization. Nearly half of the interests
remained expressionless. The four leases were canceled. The majority
of the interests wished it so. But, it was the delinquents who hollered
most, even censured me for giving up the lease—when some of the acreage
came into production several years later. It seemed not to have occurred
to them that wo would have lost out, anyway.
But, in the Moline field we got some experience which should have taught
us a lesson, that a bird in hand is worth a whole flock in the bush—but
it didn’t. We could have sold our leases at a nice profit.
An oil gusher was brought in on a large tract of pasture land one mile
away from our holdings. Dr. Shaffer wired me to come down at once. He
drove me out to the well. There was a terrific jam—at the well, on the
road, in Moline. Crowds of people were at the well ahead of us that
morning—Art Hough, a former Wetmore boy, and his oil-rich partner,
from Independence, among them. Excitement was running high. One man was
killed in his overturned car while rushing out from town. And I, myself,
spent the night in a Moline hospital. This fact, however, does not
necessarily pertain to the gusher—except to show that there was genuine
good-feeling all round. I was the guest of Dr. Shaffer and his wife,
who were the only other occupants of his new hospital, not yet ready for
public patronage. Dr. Shaffer owned a one-eighth interest in our leases.
If you have never seen an oil-gusher, you don’t know what a thrilling
sight it is—especially, if you own nearby leases. Oil spurted in gusts
at regular intervals high into the air, spread out in all directions and
arched down over the four case-setters, stripped to the waist, encasing
them in a film of oil so heavy as to exclude them from view, at times.
Art Hough and his partner, who owned some producing wells in the shallow
field near Independence, wanted to buy our leases—but who would want to
sell in the midst of all that excitement? And, anyway, I was not in
a position to deal with them on the spot, as there were fifty-three
signers in the group to an agreement which provided for fifty-one per
cent of the interests to say when to sell. We did, however, later,
arrange to sell part of the leases—carrying a provision for drilling—and
the papers were sent to the Moline bank; but the prospective buyer was
unable to come through with the money.
The gusher was on land owned, or controlled, by a Moline banker, and
another man. I heard one of the partners say, not once but many times,
always the same sing-song word for word, “I just told the Lord that
since He had been so good to me, I shall never desecrate His holy name.”
If I may express myself, unbiasedly, I would say the Lord played no
favorites in the Moline field; that I think He had nothing to do with
the man’s good luck, except, possibly, in a general way of being the
creator of all things—else why would He have destroyed the gusher
with salt-water, and got the owners the threat of a robust lawsuit to
boot—for polluting a God-given stream of fresh water?
In the matter of a fresh try to reopen the Wetmore oil test, I protested
the contract offered by the two Kansas City promoters, maintaining that
we had no valid authority to sign anything in the name of “the people”
and that liability would fall on the individual signers. One of the
committeemen who had been in various lines of business in Wetmore,
and had finally settled himself in a real estate office, said, “Why,
John—there haint a day but what I make contracts like that.” Questioning
the man’s competency in such matters, I said, “I wouldn’t doubt it in
the least—but it will take still more plausible argument to induce me to
sign this one.”
The other members of the committee had caught the spirit of the meeting
in the opera house, and were anxious to see further development of
our oil prospect. They conferred the “favor” of the trusteeship on
committeeman Sam Thornburrow, cashier of the State Bank—and they all
signed the contract. Then the promoters went back to Kansas City to
await the hatching of the egg they had laid here. And in due time, Sam
got notice from a lawyer in Kansas City that he was about to be sued
for breach of contract. Then one morning as I was passing the bank Sam
hailed me. He said, “You know, those Kansas City fellows have sued
me for $1,000—what would you do about it?” Remembering how they had
“ribbed” me for refusing to sign with them, I said, “I’d pay it.” After
he had turned this over in his troubled mind a few times, I told him
to pay no attention to it—that the promoters were most likely trying
to frighten him into a settlement; that they would have to start their
action in Kansas—and that I doubted very much if they would risk doing
this, as the contract would show them up for the grafters they were.”
The Kansas City promoters did not follow through with their claim for
damages.
It took only one more throw at the get-rich-quick oil game to convince
me that it just could not be accomplished by throwing in with the other
fellow on his home grounds, after he had carried the project to a point
where any day’s drilling might bring riches. But I’m still strong on the
home-test—for that would be furthering something for the good of all the
home folks.