Chapter 19 Tom Swift and His Great Oil Gusher by Victor Appleton
ON THE VERGE
In the big comfortable kitchen of the farmhouse a delicious supper was being prepared and Carol was busily engaged in setting the good things on the table when Tom, Ned and Mr. Damon entered. She had seen them coming, but had immediately retreated from the window when she saw Ned looking in her direction, and now tried to pretend that she had not been on the lookout at all.
But Mr. Damon was not inclined to let her off so easily. Although he had known the Gobys but a few days, the jovial and eccentric man already seemed like an old friend of the family, and was very popular with them.
“I thought I saw you at the window, Carol, as we came along,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Were you looking for any one in particular?”
“No, not at all. I just happened to glance out, and there you were coming along. You all looked hungry, too, so I thought I’d better hurry and serve supper,” she answered demurely.
During the meal, Mr. Goby dropped something of his usual sad manner and became talkative. He told them of many interesting incidents in the surrounding country, for which he entertained a deep affection, and predicted great things in the future.
“The country is rich any way you look at it,” he proclaimed, after they had left the table and were in the living room. “If your land is fertile, you can make money out of raising crops and cattle on the surface, and if it’s barren you stand a good chance of finding riches under the surface. My son always used to say that you were bound to do well with it one way or the other, and I guess he was right.”
“Bless my posterity!” cried Mr. Damon. “Your son? Why, I didn’t know you had a boy. Neither you nor Carol has ever mentioned him. Tell us about him.”
Mr. Damon was all interest, as were also the others.
“Oh, yes,” replied Mr. Goby. “I have a son, and a fine big fellow he is. But he hasn’t been home for a long time now. He hasn’t even written lately. I guess he must have forgotten his father and sister,” and there was a note of sadness and longing in the blind man’s voice.
“Sometimes the young people get so interested in the outside world that they don’t realize how long the time seems to the folks at home,” said Mr. Damon sympathetically. “What is your boy doing, Mr. Goby?”
“That’s just what worries me more than anything else. He’s gone fairly crazy over airplanes, and the last we heard of him he was flying one for some inventor who was developing a new type. I’m afraid that he may have met with some accident, and that’s why we haven’t heard from him for so long.”
“Oh, flying in an airplane is safe enough,” remarked Tom. “I’ve traveled a good many thousands of miles that way and never got anything worse than a scratch to show for it. What is your son’s first name, Mr. Goby? I may have heard of him somewhere. Or if I don’t know him myself, I have a wide acquaintance among flying men and can make some inquiries among them.”
“It’s an unusual name,” replied the blind man. “But it’s one that his grandfather carried before him, and so we gave it to him. His full name is Hitt Goby.”
“Hitt Goby,” Tom repeated, with a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t think I ever heard the name before, and yet there is something familiar about it.”
“Same here,” remarked Ned. “Hitt Goby. Hitt Goby. Say, Tom,” he added, with sudden excitement, “do you suppose it could be the aviator we rescued in the woods? You know we thought he said his name was Hillobie, but he was half unconscious and it might have been Hitt Goby.”
“By George, I believe you’re right!” replied Tom, jumping to his feet in great excitement and beginning to pace the room. “We’ll have to wire to Shopton right away and find out.”
“Bless my shoe laces!” gasped Mr. Damon, and then sat staring about him.
“What do you mean? What happened to my son?” demanded the blind man, in great agitation.
He had risen to his feet and stood trembling, his face the color of ashes. Tom sprang to his side and supported him as he swayed dizzily.
“You said that he was half unconscious when you rescued him,” cried Carol, sudden tears in her eyes. “How did he get hurt? How badly was he hurt? Oh, tell us quickly.”
“Don’t be frightened,” said Ned quietly, taking her hand. “He wasn’t fatally hurt. He was getting along all right the last time we saw him. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t your brother. Have you a picture of him?”
“Yes,” replied Carol, her first apprehensions relieved by what Ned said. “I have one up on my bureau. I’ll run up and get it.”
She flew upstairs, and a moment later returned with the photograph. It had evidently been taken some years before, but the likeness was undeniable.
“That’s the man,” declared Tom, after a moment’s inspection. Ned, who was looking over his shoulder, nodded in agreement.
“No doubt about it. Same eyes, same nose, same shaped head.”
“Tell us all about it,” cried Mr. Goby and Carol in the same breath, feverish with impatience.
In as few words as possible, Tom narrated the happenings of that memorable afternoon when the young aviator had fallen into the woods with his blazing plane.
“Broken leg! Broken ribs! My poor brother!” cried Carol, and, for a moment, her tears flowed, while Mr. Goby only by the greatest effort kept himself from following her example.
“But he’s gotten all over those troubles,” Tom assured them consolingly. “The last time I saw the head physician of the hospital he told me that both leg and ribs had healed perfectly.”
“I can’t thank you two young men enough for what you have done for my poor boy,” said Mr. Goby, and Carol’s eyes were bright with unspoken thanks through her tears. “But if he has got well again, why hasn’t he left the hospital and come home? And why hasn’t he written?”
This was a poser for Tom, who had carefully avoided saying anything about Hitt Goby’s mental condition. That, he felt, would be almost equivalent to a death blow. He almost began to regret that the matter had been mentioned at all.
“Oh, there might be a dozen reasons for either of those things,” he said evasively. “In the first place, they might keep him at the hospital even after the breaks had mended until he had fully gotten back his strength. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll telegraph the first thing to-morrow morning from Copperhead to the hospital and find out just how matters stand.”
Nothing else was talked of that night, and the boys had to answer questions bearing on every little detail of the young aviator’s rescue. They glossed over their own part of the work as much as possible, but Mr. Goby and Carol overwhelmed them with thanks for the part they had played.
Tom and Ned had heavy hearts, however, when at last they found themselves alone in their room. They looked at each other gloomily.
“How can we ever tell them if it turns out that the boy has lost his mind?” groaned Tom, in a whisper.
“In that case, it would be a thousand times better if he were dead,” responded Ned gloomily. “But we’ve got to buck up and hope for the best. It’s a good while since we saw him, and by this time he’ll perhaps be all right in mind as well as body. At any rate, we’ll know by to-morrow night.”
The first thing after breakfast the next morning, Tom, in the Winged Arrow, flew over to Copperhead. There he dispatched a telegram to Dr. Sherwood, asking him to tell him the whole truth, whether the news was good or bad, about young Goby’s condition, and to wire him, if possible, so that he could get the message by noon.
He had a considerable amount of business to transact in Copperhead, and he was glad that he had, as it occupied the time and made the waiting more endurable. But by noon he was back in the telegraph station, only to be told that no message had come for him. He waited around for nearly an hour, fairly consumed with impatience. But at last the operator looked up from his clicking key.
“Something for you coming in now, Mr. Swift,” he announced. “I’ll have it all in a minute or two.”
Tom hastened over and watched him as he transcribed the message and handed it to him. Tom glanced over it and let out a whoop of exultation that made the operator smile. Then he rushed out and jumped into the plane and sent it whizzing over to the Goby farm.
Carol had been on the watch for him, and came running out of the house to the open space where he made his landing. A glance at his face told her that he was the bearer of good tidings.
Had it been anything of less importance, Tom might have teased her a little before he told her. As it was, he thrust the yellow slip in her hand as soon as he reached her side. She read it eagerly, pressed it to her heart, and then, with a word of thanks, hurried to the house.
“It’s all right, Father!” she cried, as she burst! into the living room, where the blind man was eagerly awaiting her. “Listen to this!” And with hands that trembled so that she could hardly hold the paper she read:
“Young Goby entirely recovered. Body and mind in perfect condition. Will leave the hospital in a day or two and go directly to his father’s home.
“Sherwood.”
The blind man opened his arms and Carol sank into them, father and daughter weeping happy tears together.
Tom had not followed Carol, for he knew that just then she wanted no other company than her father. He hunted up Ned and Mr. Damon and imparted the good news to them, and they had a little jubilee of their own.
At the well, however, things were not going so happily. The new supply of pipe and couplings had arrived, and Tom had started the drill again, but still they seemed as far as ever from oil. For two days more the drill aid steadily down, and length after length of pipe was engulfed in the deepening hole. They had now penetrated the earth’s crust to a distance of 1,300 feet without a sign of oil, and any one with less than Tom’s indomitable courage would have quit the seemingly hopeless struggle in weariness and disgust. But Tom was not yet ready to acknowledge himself beaten.
“We’ll go down another hundred feet,” he said, while Mr. Damon shook his head and even Ned looked gloomy and downcast. “I know we can’t go on forever, and if we don’t strike oil in the next hundred feet I’ll own up that we’re beaten and we’ll have to make the best of it. Fourteen hundred feet will be our limit. And I guess that won’t be so bad, even if we don’t reach oil. We can say we died game, anyway.”
“Why, bless my eyes and ears, Tom Swift, I must say I have more admiration for your grit than for your judgment,” cried Mr. Damon.
“If he had taken my advice and stopped two weeks ago, think of all the money we’d have saved, not to mention the time and worry. I think we’re foolish to go another hundred feet,” grumbled Ned.
“But I know that if his heart is set on it, nothing we can say will change him, Ned,” resumed Mr. Damon. “I wish you luck, my boy,” he went on, turning to Tom. “But it looks dark and dreary to me.”
“Well, I’ll stick it out, anyway,” replied Tom doggedly. “The drill is going fast now, and it won’t take us more than a few days at most to go that extra hundred. I’ll promise to quit then, but not an inch sooner.”
This conversation took place just before the men knocked off work at noontime. They were a disgruntled crew, for they had all set their hearts on striking a “gusher,” and were almost as downcast over the prospect of failure as Ned and Mr. Damon. After lunch they gathered around to resume work in a mechanical manner, and Tom could easily see that they had given up hope.
The drill was set in operation once more. It had been going only a short time. Suddenly a far-off rumbling sound came up the shaft. At the same time a pungent odor of raw petroleum came drifting out of the boring.
In a second all was wild excitement.
“We’re close to oil, sir!” exclaimed the foreman of the drilling gang. “A few more strokes of the drill, and we’ll be through into it. Better be ready to cap the well before we go any farther.”
Tom was about to issue the necessary orders, when suddenly, deep under the earth’s surface, there was an explosion that rocked the solid ground on which they stood! From the boring came a whistling sound, resembling the escape of steam under high pressure!