a sum said to be $14,350 toward the completion of a well in a producing
field east of Enid, Oklahoma, on land owned by a Bancroft man. The
headquarters of the Company was in a fair sized city in southern Kansas,
with a department store owner as president, a physician and surgeon as
secretary—and a banker deeply interested in a covered-up sort of way.
The president and the land owner had departed with our money, supposedly
to complete the well—and then we would all most likely be “sitting
pretty.” But in about a week we got notice of a called meeting to vote
$30,000 increase in capital stock. Also, we were advised of the bringing
in of a gas well of ten million feet potential on the lease adjoining
the company ground on the south, still farther away from the known
production area on the north, proving that we were still “sitting
pretty.” Had this been reported before we joined-up with our Southern
Kansas financiers, I, for one, would have kept my money. Sane people do
not let the public in on a speculative enterprise after its success is
practically assured.
Our Wetmore “investors”, gave me proxies, and sent me down to
investigate. I first went with the land-owner to the Oklahoma field. We
found no activity at the well on his land, but the rig was still up.
And the drillers were working on the reported gas strike just across the
road. They told me that they had struck a small flow of gas—that it was
not strong enough to blow your hat off the casing.
I got back to the Kansas headquarters on Saturday about noon, and went
at once to the department store owned by the president. He introduced
his wife, who worked in the store, and his father-in-law, whom I shall
call Mr. Shapp—though this is not his real name. The president insisted
that I take dinner with him at his home. I sensed something was
wrong—but I couldn’t place it just yet. I learned later that Dr. Lapham
had got wise to something pertaining to the call for an increase of
capital stock, and had written him a critical letter. Dr. Lapham told me
later that it was a “scorcher”—and I can well believe it was. They were
all rather upset. Of course the president, and the secretary, and the
banker, knew some things which I didn’t know—yet. My dinner host was a
bit “jumpy” because of that “scorcher” letter of Dr. Lap-ham’s, and my
appearance two days in advance of the called meeting. But had he known
what I had just learned at the dinner table, he could have trusted me
implicitly.
Some years prior to this I had sold, through advertisement in the Topeka
Capital, 500 shares of our mining stock to the fictitious Monroe P.
Shapp, of that address, and through him 200 shares in the name of his
daughter, Ella J. Shapp. Now, when the merchant called his wife “Ella” I
put two and two together—then I knew that I was among old friends. And I
couldn’t find it in my heart to get rough with them.
Not that I had any apologies to make for our mine promotion. We had used
their money, as promised, in the development of the mine, and at this
time were still putting our own money into it—and we had no intention
of going out and selling a block of stock to rub out the deficit. That
would have been illegal in Nevada. But the fact remained that we had not
as yet been able to make any returns to stockholders.
When I called on the secretary of the oil company, he said he could not
give me any time that afternoon, that he had to perform an operation
at the hospital at 4 o’clock. I said to him, in the presence of the
president, “You fellows seem to be scared about something—but you need
not be. I give you my word that I am not here to make trouble. All I
want to know is what chance you have to make good, and if it will be
to our interests for me to vote my proxies for the increase of capital
stock at the meeting Monday.” The secretary looked at the president, and
the president looked at the secretary—then they both looked at me. The
president nodded—and the secretary said, “Come along with me.”
It seems the directors had carried on with the drilling after company
funds were exhausted, incurring personal obligations, and stopped the
drill when approximating the required depth for a strike, with a large
deficit—which, with our contribution, was now reduced to something like
$9,000. While in the office of the physician-surgeon-secretary going
over the books, the banker—of German extraction, if not the whole
thing—came in, and nodding toward a back room, said as if in great
distress, “Dokther—I’ve got a stick in the eye.”
I decided that I ought not vote for the increase of stock—and, without
leave, came home on Sunday. One of our group, an ex-businessman,
attended the meeting on his own hook to get first hand knowledge of
the situation. He wired Joe Searles Monday afternoon, saying, “Bristow
absent; could I vote the proxies?” I told Joe to wire him, “Yes—if
you have them.” I had just turned them in to Joe. In a couple of days
Searles got a long letter from him—written by a stenographer in
Kansas City—berating me for running out on them, and boasting of the
business-like interest he himself had taken in the meeting, saying, “I
stayed with them until we got in proxies enough the next day to get
the money—and I bought $250 worth more of the stock.” He did not
say—probably didn’t know—if his purchase was of the newly voted stock,
or from the old issue. I had a strong suspicion that we had all ready
bought and paid for a generous take of the newly voted stock—and got
short changed as well.
I had called on that “stick-in-the-eye” banker a short while before,
and obtained from him the log of a producing well recently brought in by
Frank Letson and associates in the Enid field—and this, I think, might
have been what had alerted the banker; or, maybe, the president had sent
his partner scurrying in to forestall an admission of their questionable
finagling. I wanted that log to compare with the log of “our” drilling,
which I had obtained from “our” president. Then, too, Frank Letson was
a younger brother of Ed and Ella Letson who were my schoolmates in
Wetmore, when their father, Bill Letson, owned a general store here;
before going to Netawaka to engage in like business. I had called at the
Fleming and Letson bank in Enid two days before, but did not get to see
either of my old acquaintances.
The Fleming bank, now an imposing brick structure having tall columns,
on the east side of the square, was started on the south side, opposite
the land office, in a small frame building in the new town after the
opening of the Cherokee strip, in 1893. I also had occasion to call
at the old bank about six months after the opening, to get a paper
notarized.
Attorney Elwin Campfield, in the law office of John Curran, formerly of
Seneca, on the west side of the Enid square, filled out relinquishing
papers for me, without charge—we had been neighbors in the Bleisener
building in Wetmore—and suggested that I wait in the Curran office a few
minutes when he would have one of the office force notarize it for me,
presumedly also without charge—a small matter hardly worth waiting for.
Up here the fee for such service was then, and still is, twenty-five
cents. I told Elwin I would go over to the Fleming bank and get it
notarized, that I wanted to pay my respects to Ollie, anyway. 01 had
grabbed off, at Netawaka, a red headed girl (Ella Letson) whom I had
thought pretty nice when we were care-free kids running wild on the
streets of Wetmore in the early days.
Well, 01 was sure glad to see me—and he would gladly remember me to
Ella. When he had returned the notarized paper to me, I said, “How
much, 01?” He said, “Five dollars!” I shot him a wordless blank look. He
laughed, and said, “Oh, give me two-and-a-half.” There had been a
time in that frontier town when one could get most anything asked for
services, but that time was now over and passed—half-over, anyway.
That officious Wetmore man was in Dr. Lapham’s office when I reported my
findings. I told the group that I had spoken only for myself when I gave
those finaglers my word that I was not there to make trouble—that I had
to do this to get them to open up. I told the group that I had no desire
to pursue the matter further, but that they themselves were not barred;
that any one of them who might wish to, could notify the Blue Sky Board
in Topeka—and the Board would do the rest.
The man who had taken matters in his own hands and helped put over the
vote for the increase of capital stock without the formality of first
finding out what it was all about, popped up and said, “You had no right
to tell them that.” He insisted that I should make the complaint. And
the surprising thing is, he had some supporters. There were some hard
losers in the group. I had not made the investigation with the intention
of filing a complaint—wouldn’t have accepted the assignment had it
carried any such provision. I don’t like fussing.
Then, too, the president and the land owner had not solicited me to buy
stock, nor made promise to me that the fund would be used to complete
the well. Their contact had been with Dr. Lapham and other members of
the group. I went in with them solely because my neighbors had invited
me to join them, and because I didn’t want to stand idly by—and watch
them make a “killing.” However, on invitation, I went up to Dr. Lapham’s
office at the virtual close of a “pep” meeting, after the check-writing
had begun. I asked for information as to how the company was
organized—particularly as to whether or not the stock was
non-assessable? The president and the land-owner really didn’t know.
But they went to Topeka the next day and secured a transcript of the
incorporation papers, which were acceptable. And I was invited to
go before the adjourned meeting the following evening, and voice my
approval. Then the check writing was resumed.
Also, my conscience told me, in a flash, that it would be a rather
poor spirited person who should wish to send his neighbor “up” for the
mistake of keeping bad company. It looked as if our old farmer-neighbor
had been caught in between two fires, and didn’t know which way to
“jump”—or worse still, that there was now no open way out. Thus, it may
be said, that our old Bancroft farmer-friend, in his most uncomfortable
position, was comparable to the banker held as hostage by a bold gang of
robbers who had just looted his bank. I know. I spent two days with the
dispirited old man in the oil field.
The Blue Sky Board was fostered to check on promotions whose stocks
were strongly, if not wholly, tinctured with the azure blue. Along about
1905-06-07 questionable promotions—mostly mining—sprang up all over the
country. Kansas City had several going full blast at one time. I had
occasion to call on one of them; had arranged the meeting through
correspondence. I entered a very large room where perhaps thirty or
forty girl-typists were busily preparing literature to be sent out by
mail to inquirers secured through newspaper advertisements. The
printed portion of the literature had been prepared by “experts”
copy-writers—and it is surprising how those fellows could make an
inferior proposition appeal to the gullible.
The Fiscal Agent’s secretary, or outside girl, stationed near his
private office—he had a better looking secretary in his office—said
she believed the “boss” was not in. I gave her my name and stated my
business. She went into the private office, and returned saying, Mr.
so-and-so would see me. However, had I been a questionable caller, the
outside girl would have told me upon returning that he was not in, and
that she had learned from his inside secretary that he had gone out of
town and would not be back that day. This was the system. The “boss” did
not want to see any of his subscribers—nor an officer of the law.
One of those Kansas City promotion companies was selling stock in what
was called a Ten Million Dollar Development—that is, ten million shares,
par-value one dollar, sold at two cents a share, the idea being to offer
the purchaser a lot for little money, out in our mining district
in Nevada. It was highly advertised as the “Extension of the Great
(Searchlight) Quartette Vein.” The outfit was actually sinking a shaft
about a half-mile out in the valley west of the mountain-situated
Quartette mine—a rich gold producer—without reasonable chance of picking
up anything in the way of values. Too many promotions like this were
victimizing the people. The Blue Sky Board’s function was to keep them
out of Kansas.
In our own mine promotion, I did some newspaper advertising in
Topeka—but, first, I had to get a clearance from the Blue Sky Board (in
Bank Commissioner Dolley’s office) showing that our company was on the
square; that the stock was a fair risk; that purchasers were fully and
truthfully informed; and most important of all, that the purchasers
would get a run for their money—meaning that the money so collected must
not be used in paying for a “dead horse.”
On full-page advertising in a number of papers, I received on the
average one inquiry for each 3,000 circulation—but I sold practically
all of them. This was only about one-hundredth part of the returns
the Kansas City fellows were getting. And I had strong copy, too. The
newspaper boys said it was unusually strong. But I made the mistake—from
the promoter’s view point—of telling the readers the truth, that we
had not carried the proposition to a point where we were about ready to
begin handing out dividends, which was the Kansas City boy’s big drawing
card. This was costing too much—and I discontinued selling the stock,
hoping that we might yet find an Agent who would have better luck. We
used up the funds on hand; then went at it individually again. And the
six miners continued on the job, taking their full wages in our treasury
stock.
Let it be understood that the mining stock I sold was far from being in
the blue sky class—and that the job of selling it was “wished” on me.
While in the process of incorporating, our president, Frank Williams,
had made tentative arrangements with Los Angeles “Fiscal Agents”—that’s
what they called themselves then—to sell our treasury stock, but failed
to conclude a satisfactory contract with them. He had encountered the
same questionable line of approach out there that caused me to turn down
the Kansas City “Fiscal Agents.”
Might say that in the first place, on his recommendation, I had joined
Frank Williams in the purchase of the initial lead-zinc-vanadium
claim—only lead discovered then—on which our corporation was mainly
based. Included in the corporation also were three (gold) claims in the
Crescent district, owned by Frank and his brother Tommy Williams, A. M.
Harter, and Jonah Jones. These Crescent claims were taken in on a basis
of one-sixth of the combined value. Our lead claim had the further
approval of that veteran millionaire miner, Green Campbell—indeed, had
he not died suddenly of pneumonia, Green, instead of I, would have
been Frank’s partner. Frank had been with Green Campbell, and his uncle
Elwood Thomas—all three of the men former Wetmore citizens, in the
Goodsprings district for twelve years, at that time.
Then, too, those Crescent gold claims held appeal. What think you that
your heart would have done to you, had you been able to go out on your
own holdings and scrape up dirt—disintegrated rock, assaying $544 gold
to the ton—at a time when the fabulous production of the not too
distant Comstock mines in Nevada, with less glowing beginning, was being
proclaimed all over the land as having saved the credit of the Nation
during Civil War days.
And, by the way, isn’t it about time for us to dig again?
Please—somebody, anybody, everybody—pray with me for a redeeming
Comstock as of yore, only let it be such stepped up magnitude as to
save, beyond the possibility of a slip, the credit of our Uncle Sam,
even in his magnanimous undertaking to tide, piggyback, all those
unstable old country states over the troubled waters of world unrest—in
an effort to convince a certain belligerent-minded Old World character
that war is, a la Sherman, indeed “hell.”
But remember, mines are made—not found.
Before incorporating, we (Frank and I), worked the lead claim for nearly
two years—or rather, Frank did the work and I paid him one-half of the
prevailing miner’s wage. We were trying our best to make a paying mine
of it—and may I say that, encouraged by occasional shipments, there were
times when we believed we were right at the door of accomplishment.
The point I’m trying to stress here is, that we did not acquire the
mining claims for the purpose of launching a stock-selling enterprise,
as was so of ter done about that time. But we learned that more often
than not even promising mining prospects require the expenditure of
more money than we, as individuals, could devote to it—hence the
incorporation.
Thus it is that, in the fullness of Time, I have tried mining—to the
tune of Six Thousand Dollars, plus; out of pocket—and I’ve tried oil,
not once but three times; and I’ve even tried real estate speculation
in the boom days of Port Arthur, Texas—all avenues leading up to the
coveted get-rich-quick-field—and so help me, I have never taken down a
dollar.
I promised my companion of the day that I wouldn’t tell about our
“investments” in Port Arthur town lots. But that was a long time ago,
between the time he was elected Governor of Kansas, from Nemaha County,
and the time he served as Governor of the Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas
City, Missouri. So I opine that it doesn’t matter now, since he is
safely beyond the pale of political patronage. In the new boom town of
Port Arthur that warm January day about the turn of the century, the
“boomers” showed us the location, with rock foundation all ready in
place, for a bank building, with brick enough piled on the site to build
an edifice big enough to house all the money in the world. But the
most revealing report I ever got from my friend, the Governor, on our
investments, was that the restless bank foundation and its companion
brick pile had gone on the prowl, virtually slipped from one end of the
plotted business section to the other end, taking now and then a rest
period.
The old regulars in our group of “investors” are about all dead now—or
have dropped the Big Idea. Joe Searles, at present prescription clerk in
a Sabetha drugstore, never in too deeply with the old group, is in line
to get his now. He has taken on both leases and royalties in the Strahm
field. The development so far has been done by the Carter Oil Company,
holding most of the leases. But private interests are trafficking in
royalties in a big way. Should Joe make good—that is, break into the big
money where the Internal Revenue take would warrant him in throwing
away a portion of his winnings in “wildcatting,” I suggest that he come
home—and finish the Haigh-Lapham oil test. This—and other betterments
for the old home town—is what I planned on doing, had I become burdened
with mine-made money.
Also, let it be understood that I took no part in the organization
of our group of “investors,” or the promotion of any of our oil
speculations.
And now a last word.
Since it appeared that our Southern Kansas co-partners had risked their
own money, or more likely their credit, in completing the drilling,
incurring disappointment—and, crowded by an unseen hand, (which I
believe I could have put my finger on), had taken the wrong way out of
the dilemma, and if I were not mistaken they yet had a long, long way
to go to get out of the woods; so then, let us be lenient. Why say an
unkind word about your neighbor—when it gets you nothing? Don’t know
if they ever sold any more of the newly voted stock, or if they did any
more drilling. Never heard from them again.
In tolerance of human frailty, let me say that our old Bancroft
farmer-friend, allied with keener personalities, had always been
a reputable man—that the doctor-secretary, and the merchant-prince
apparently stood high among their fellowmen—and then there was Ella J.,
holder of some mining stock. But, even so, had I not lost interest in
the investigation, considered it hopeless, I believe I could have found
“sticks” in more than one eye.