Chapter 16 Tom Swift and His Great Oil Gusher by Victor Appleton
ON THE TRAIL OF FORTUNE
Tom looked in the direction indicated, and among the men standing at the bar saw Hankinshaw. The mottled face was even redder than usual.
“Can’t seem to avoid that fellow,” remarked Tom disgustedly. “He’s a regular jinx.”
Either Hankinshaw had not seen them or he had not recognized them in their aviators’ suits, for he paid no attention to them. He took one drink more and then lurched unsteadily out of the place.
Tom and Ned finished their meal and went to the shack that served as post-office and telegraph station. Tom sent off messages to his father and Mary, announcing their safe arrival, and then made some inquiries of the telegraph operator, a bright young college boy who was “fingering the key” to earn some extra money during his vacation.
“Is the town of Goby near here?” asked Tom.
“No town of that name in this section,” was the answer. “But there’s a Goby farm owned by a man of that name about four miles from here.”
“I guess that’s the place I have in mind,” said Tom, “though from what a friend of mine told me I thought it was the name of a town. Is the owner of it a blind man?”
“Yes,” was the answer. “A nice old fellow he is, too, and he has a daughter that’s a perfect peach.”
“Tell me about him, will you?”
“I understand that he’s a Northerner who came down to this part of the country to regain his health. Since he came here he’s gone blind. I imagine he’s had rather hard sledding to get along on his half section of land. That is, before the oil craze began. As far as I can learn, his property is right in the midst of the oil region, and he’ll probably be able to sell it at a good price. That is, if he doesn’t get cheated out of it. Some of these oil prospectors are a pretty slick lot. They’d steal the penny off a dead man’s eyes, and they’d rob a blind man as quickly as they’d take a drink.”
“I suppose so,” remarked Tom. “You say that this farm is about four miles from here. Could you give us more exact directions?”
The obliging operator could and did, and Tom and Ned hurried back to their plane, taking with them two quarts of coffee and a double portion of ham and eggs and rolls that they had had put up for the faithful Koku.
While the giant feasted, Tom took his bearings, and as soon as Koku had finished they climbed into the Winged Arrow and turned it in the direction of the Goby farm. To make a mile a minute was nothing to the powerful plane, and in less than five minutes it was hovering over a homestead which answered to the description that the operator had given. It was in slightly rolling country with several hills in the vicinity, differing from the unrelieved flat plain on which Copperhead stood. It was a pleasant place and seemed like an oasis amid the throng of derricks that reared themselves on every side.
The house itself was a substantial two-story structure with a sloping roof. There were white curtains at the windows and a perfect riot of flowers at the front and around two sides of the building. The whiteness and the daintiness of the curtains seemed to show the presence of a feminine hand.
Tom made a landing about three hundred feet from the house. A movement among the curtains showed that the roar of the engine had attracted attention from at least one of the inmates. Leaving Koku with the plane, Tom and Ned made their way to the house.
Tom knocked and the door was promptly opened by one of the most charming girls imaginable. She was slightly above medium height, had a perfect figure, beautifully formed features, and wavy chestnut hair and limpid brown eyes. It was evident that the enthusiastic young telegraph operator had not erred when he had described her.
To Tom, with his mind and heart full of Mary, she was simply a very pretty girl. To Ned, she seemed a heavenly vision, the sweetest thing he had ever seen.
“Does Mr. Goby live here?” asked Tom, removing his cap.
“Yes,” was the reply, in a soft, musical voice that completed Ned’s undoing. “I am his daughter. Won’t you walk in?”
“My name is Swift,” said Tom, as they accepted her invitation, “and this is my friend, Mr. Newton. We came to see your father on a little business matter.”
“If you will sit down,” she said, as she ushered them into the living room and indicated chairs, “I will call him.”
She vanished, followed by Ned’s eyes. Tom, looking at his friend, saw him staring at the door through which she had disappeared.
“Hard hit, old boy?” he bantered. “Come out of your trance.”
Ned glared at him, but before he could frame a suitable retort the young girl came back, accompanied by a man whom she introduced as her father. Then she excused herself, flushing a trifle as she caught the all too evident admiration in Ned’s eyes.
Mr. Goby was a medium-built man somewhat over fifty, with a kindly and intelligent face. He wore a pair of colored spectacles, evidently to cover his loss of sight. The young men took to him at once.
After a few preliminary remarks, Tom launched into the object of their visit. He told him that he and a few of his friends had decided to go into an oil venture, and were looking about for a likely spot to commence operations. They had selected the Copperhead district and had noted that his farm was right in the center of the producing field. Did Mr. Goby care to sell or lease all or part of his property? If he did, Tom thought they might make a deal, as he and his associates were prepared to offer perfectly fair terms.
The blind man listened attentively, though, for a time, the boys could not tell whether interestedly or not.
“Well,” said he, “it seems highly probable that oil abounds on this farm of mine. All my friends have told me so, and the fact that rich strikes have been made all around it seems to confirm the probability. Then, too, I’ve had a number of offers from speculators and prospectors. One group in particular have been especially pressing. A man named Thompson with two of his friends have seemed very anxious to make some arrangement. But—” here Mr. Goby hesitated for a moment—“perhaps it isn’t fair to say so, but there’s something about them that doesn’t seem to ring quite true. What they offer sounds fair enough, but, somehow, I don’t quite feel as though I could trust them. My daughter, Carol, who is pretty shrewd, feels the same way about it.”
“I see,” murmured Tom, nodding.
“You see,” continued Mr. Goby, after some further talk concerning the offer Tom was prepared to make, “I’m at a disadvantage on account of my blindness. So I have to leave most of my business affairs in the hands of an old friend of mine, Judge Wilson, of the district court. I’ve referred this Mr. Thompson and his partners to the judge, but for some reason or other they seem reluctant to deal with him. They say that I’m the owner of the property, and they’d rather deal direct with me than through my attorney. But how can I sign papers that I haven’t read? To be sure, my daughter could read them to me, but even then I’m not versed in legal matters, and there might be some clause in the contract that would seem perfectly innocent and yet be used to rob me. This farm is all I have in the world, and I have to look out for the future of my daughter.”