It rarely happens, in real life, that people are lifted from the profoundest depths of grief, poverty, and misfortune, to such heights of joy and promised prosperity, as was the case with those whose fortunes depended on the success or failure of the Dale-Dustin oil well, on the memorable morning of Brace Barlow’s great shot. For many weeks they had been weighed down by anxiety, and filled with mingled hopes and fears. For hours they had been prostrated by what seemed utter and unavoidable ruin. The night had been passed in hopeless sorrow, but in an instant it was swept away. The rising sun, shining full on that gleaming column of oil, hurling its mighty torrent from the mysterious recesses where it had lain hidden for untold ages, filled their hearts with its gladness and unspeakable glory. For some minutes they could only gaze upon the scene that it disclosed with incredulous wonder and amazement.

To Colonel Dale and his niece, who had never before witnessed the shooting of an oil well, the sight was a miracle, and they were at a loss to account for it.

To Arthur and Brace Barlow, who had not dared hope for such wonderful results from their torpedo, that golden fountain of oil was at the moment the most beautiful and desirable thing on earth.

At length, withdrawing his fascinated gaze from it, Arthur saw his grandfather standing bareheaded, bewildered, and motionless, near the open door of the frame house. Running to him the excited boy flung himself into his arms, crying:

“Oh, grandpapa, we’ve shot the ‘duster’ and turned it into the most beautiful ‘gusher’ that ever was seen! Isn’t it perfectly splendid! And we are the very most genuine kind of ‘chumps,’ after all, aren’t we? And I never was so happy in all my life! Were you, grandpapa?”

“No, my boy, I don’t believe I ever was,” answered Colonel Dale, in a voice almost choked with emotion, “unless it was when you came to me to be the joy and pride of my old age.”

Then Miss Hatty, who had hastily dressed herself, came running down-stairs; and she cried and laughed at the same time, as she threw her arms about the boy and called him her young “oil Prince,” and declared that he was the dearest, and wisest, and most lovable oil Prince in all the world.

Beside them stood shy little Cynthia, gazing at the marvel with wide open eyes, half-frightened and not knowing what to say, but thrilled with the great happiness and excitement of those about her.

In the meantime hundreds of barrels of the precious oil were pouring down the hillside and going to waste, in a yellow stream that fretted and sparkled and tumbled in miniature cascades over the rocks like a runaway mountain brook. Several men from the neighboring farms, attracted by the noise of the explosion and the hoarse roar of the escaping oil and gas, now came hurrying to the spot. Followed by these, Brace Barlow started toward the derrick to see what could be done to check the furious torrent and direct it into the empty tanks.

Colonel Dale was about to join them; but, stopped by a sudden thought, he turned to Arthur and asked him if he could ride to the telegraph office five miles away and send an important despatch.

“Of course I can, sir,” answered the boy promptly, for after his experience of that morning he felt that he could do almost anything.

So a message that had been previously thought out was hastily written. Arthur was charged to make all speed with it and, above all, not to mention a word of what had taken place at the Dale-Dustin well that morning to anybody.

As Colonel Dale had found it necessary to ride about the country a great deal on business connected with the well, he had purchased the horse that Arthur now rode when they first came there. It was a fine animal, and the Colonel valued it highly, besides having grown very fond of it.

Now as, unmindful of Arthur’s light weight, it galloped swiftly and easily along the lonely forest roads, it seemed to fully share its young rider’s happiness and impatience. Faster and faster they flew, the horse tossing his head and pulling at the bit, while the boy’s cheeks became flushed with excitement. His eyes sparkled, and as the fresh morning air whistled past him it seemed filled with happy fancies. It was a glorious ride, and he was enjoying it to the utmost when it was interrupted in a most disagreeable and unexpected manner.

In the very loneliest part of the road, about half way to the village, two ragged, evil-looking men suddenly sprang out from the bushes by which they had been concealed. One of them succeeded in seizing the bridle of Arthur’s horse, and though the startled animal reared and plunged so as to almost unseat his young rider, the man managed to retain his hold. When the horse at last became quiet this man said:

“The walking is good enough for young legs like yours, sonny, so I reckon you’d better light down and lend us this hoss for a bit. My pard here is lame, so that he can’t keep up with the procession very well, and we’re in a hurry to get along.”

“But I am in a hurry too,” answered Arthur, trying to speak bravely and to control the fear that had driven every bit of color from his cheeks. “And I am going to the village on very important business.”

“It must be very important,” said the tramp with a disagreeable laugh.

“Yes,” spoke up the other, “I reckon it’s as important as buying a stick of candy; but that’s nothing to the importance of our business. We’re walking delegates of the society of independent tramps, we are, and our business can’t wait. So tumble down out of that saddle, young feller, without wasting any more of our walyable time. If yer don’t I’ll pull yer down; for we’ve got to have this ere hoss.”

The word “tramp” was as an inspiration to Arthur, and he answered boldly: “If you steal my horse I shall tell my friend, Sandy Grimes, the very next time I see him, and he will make you send it back, besides making you very sorry that you dared do such a thing.”

“What do you know about Sandy Grimes?” asked the man who had the bridle, while they both looked so uneasily at each other that it was evident the name was one they knew and feared.

“He is a friend of mine,” replied Arthur, “and he told me I was to mention his name if any tramps like you ever tried to bother me.”

“How are you going to prove you are a friend of Sandy’s?” asked one of the men. “You don’t look over much like one of his kind.”

“I’ll prove it this way,” answered the quick-witted boy. As he spoke, he drew a bit of pencil, and the despatch he was to deliver, from his pocket. On the back of the latter he made the symbol M̥, that the big tramp, with whose boy he had fought months before, had shown him.

The two tramps look at it in amazement. “Yes, that’s Sandy’s mark,” said one of them at length; “there’s no going back on that. But I don’t see how he ever come to give it to the likes of you. However, seeing that you’ve got it, and claims Sandy for a friend, I suppose we’ve got to let you and the hoss go. You’ll have to give us every cent of money that’s about your clothes, though, for my pard ’ll have to pay his railroad fare, if he can’t have a hoss to ride.”

Arthur had a dollar that his grandfather had given him, to pay for sending the telegram, and this he willingly gave up. Then, after the men had made him turn all his pockets inside out to show that he had no more money, they let go of his horse’s bridle, and in another moment he had dashed out of their reach and sight.

It was an ugly adventure, and one that might have ended seriously for him, if the boy had lost his head, or allowed his fright to get the better of him. But, as has been said before, Arthur was not one of the boys who lose their heads in times of danger, and once more his coolness and courage had saved him.