Chapter 18 Tom Swift and His Great Oil Gusher by Victor Appleton
A TEST OF COURAGE
At first the well went down rapidly. The earth was soft and sandy near the surface, and with even an ordinary drilling outfit progress would have been fairly rapid. But Tom’s newly perfected drill fairly ate its way through the soil, “like a gimlet going through a nice soft piece of cheese,” as Ned expressed it. They were all delighted with the performance of the new invention, and promised themselves an early and successful strike.
But this rapid progress did not keep up long. After the first hundred feet or so, the ground became harder, and they often encountered rocks that slowed up even Tom’s marvelous drill. It kept hammering away, though, and gradually thrust through obstacles that would have splintered and shattered any ordinary well-boring outfit.
Deeper and deeper grew the hole, and heavier and heavier grew the pipe as it was sunk through the earth’s crust. The big derrick creaked and groaned, and they had to stop drilling for several days while they added massive beams to the structure to reënforce it. Then drilling was resumed, but as the shaft sank deeper and deeper, and still with no sign of oil, one member after another of the party began to get discouraged. At first they would hardly admit this, even to themselves, but at last the facts had to be faced.
Mr. Damon had arrived a few days before the strengthening of the derrick. At first he had been his usual bright and voluble self, but as day followed day even his good spirits died away, and at length he put in words what the others had been thinking for some time past.
“Bless my oil cups, Tom, I’m the last man in the world to want to discourage you, but it begins to look to me as though there wasn’t a drop of oil on this whole farm—except what they burn in the lamps at night.”
“I must admit that it begins to look that way, as you say,” Tom replied. “But don’t forget that more than once oil has been struck at greater depths than we’ve penetrated so far. Why, we’re not down a thousand feet yet, and the famous ‘spouter’ well didn’t break until they’d gone down to nearly fourteen hundred. Besides, we’ve struck a softer stratum of earth now, and the old drill is beginning to bite through in fine style once more.”
“That new drill of yours has done wonders, and if you let it go I think it would reach China eventually, but even then it might not strike an oil deposit. Why, bless my good, muscular right arm, if you go down much farther, you’ll have to strengthen your derrick again. A thousand feet of iron pipe weighs something, let me tell you.”
“Well, if the derrick breaks, we’ll build a new one,” returned Tom, doggedly. “I’ve got a hunch that there’s oil under this farm, and I want pretty good proof that there isn’t before I give up looking for it. Besides, it isn’t only ourselves that we’ve got to think of. Can’t you imagine how disappointed Mr. Goby and his daughter would be if we had to admit failure?”
“Yes, and then there’s the Hankinshaw gang, too,” chimed in Ned. “They’d have the laugh on us good and plenty if we went to all this trouble and then didn’t get anything after all. We’d just be saving them the expense of doing the work themselves.”
“Very true. But you’ve got to look at this from a business viewpoint,” came from Mr. Damon. “Every ten feet you go deeper now will cost you many times more than the same distance did at first, and if the chances seem all against you, it’s better policy to take your losses and get out while you’ve got something left. That blessed hunch of yours, Tom, may prove to be a very expensive one before you’re through.”
“That’s very true, Mr. Damon. But remember that it hasn’t cost us nearly as much to drill this hole as it would if we had reached the same depth with the ordinary drilling equipment. I think we’d better add a little more bracing to the derrick and drill through another hundred feet or so. If we don’t strike oil here, I want to feel that we did our best, anyway. There may be oil within ten feet of the drill point right now.”
Tom’s confidence and eagerness were infectious, and while Mr. Damon still shook his head doubtfully and blessed everything he could think of, it was finally decided to “carry on” a little while longer. Ned, while still unconvinced, did not advance any further arguments against a continuation of the drilling, as he knew how bitterly disappointed Carol would be if they failed in the undertaking.
Day followed day at the scene of the drilling, and still there was the same heartbreaking lack of success. Deeper and deeper went the drill, faster now, but still with no result. Finally their supply of pipe ran out, and it was almost a week before they could get more—a week during which Tom paced restlessly about the confines of the farm, counting the minutes until they could resume operations. The time was not entirely wasted, however, as they added some heavy shoring to the derrick, together with some new crossbeams to support those that were bending and splitting under the tremendous strain.
In drilling for oil, as the drill bores a hole through the earth’s crust, lengths of wrought-iron pipe are lowered into the hole to keep the earth from caving in and filling the shaft. When one length of pipe, usually twelve to fifteen feet, is all the way in, another length is coupled on to it, and this in turn is sunk as the drill goes deeper. Now, the entire weight of this pipe is supported by a wooden—or, in some cases, steel—framework, which is erected over the boring. One length of four-inch pipe is not such a trifling weight, and when dozens of these lengths are coupled together, their combined weight becomes enormous. Quite often the pipe or its supports will break, and then the whole length drops down into the hole and has to be fished out again before operations can be resumed. This is often a very difficult job, and may hold up progress for many days. In the feverish rush to get the shaft sunk, derricks are often overloaded until they fall under the strain, often badly injuring or killing the workmen, and in any event causing delay and expense.
Tom and his friends had guarded as far as possible against these accidents, and so far had had no trouble in that direction. But with every length of pipe that was added to that already in the hole, the chance of an accident grew greater.
However, Tom, with characteristic grit, had determined to see the enterprise through to a finish, and the others of the party, seeing that he was not to be dissuaded, concealed as far as possible their own despondency as to the outcome.
“Bless my suspenders, Tom Swift, you look as though you had lost your last friend!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, one day. “The world won’t come to an end just because we’ve happened to run out of pipe. We’ll have more in a few days, and in the meantime you ought to be getting a rest instead of pacing up and down like a wild animal in its cage. You’ll make yourself sick if you don’t look out—bless my pill box, but you will!”
“I’ll get well fast enough when we strike oil,” Tom assured him.
“When we strike oil! Bless my timepiece! What about now? Now, Tom Swift?”
Tom laughed, but merely reiterated that he would be well enough when the oil began to flow.
“That’s all right. But in the meantime, why not be sociable?” came from Ned, as he linked his arm with that of his friend “You take hold of him on the other side, Mr. Damon, and we’ll trot him up to the farmhouse and give him a good home-cooked meal. In other words, we’ll feed the brute.”