Chapter 15 Tom Swift and His Great Oil Gusher by Victor Appleton
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.