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.”

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:

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!

For a moment the men about the well stared at one another in silent consternation. Then,

“Watch yourselves!” yelled the foreman. “There’s oil coming, and coming fast! Get the capping rigging ready, men, and move lively!”

The hissing sound grew louder. Suddenly the drill came hurtling out of the well, impelled by the tremendous pressure behind it, and shot through the heavy beams of the derrick as though they had been cardboard. Following the drill came a shower of sand and small stones. Those about the well were forced to race for shelter until the last of the debris had been blown out by the force of the escaping gas and the shower ceased.

Then the men came racing back, bringing with them the valve and clamps that were to be used to cap the well after the oil started to flow. As yet, nothing had come from the well but gas, but they knew the oil could not be far off. Under the terrific pressure of the outflowing gas, the heavy derrick began to crumble, and in a short time the whole upper part of it came apart and the stout timbers were whirled aloft and scattered far and wide like so many matchsticks.

The hissing grew louder, and a heavy rumbling sound vibrated along the pipe line, growing steadily louder and more menacing. In a few minutes more this sound had reached a huge crescendo, and then, with a shriek like that of an imprisoned demon liberated, the oil reached the surface and shot a hundred feet into the air in a huge, writhing black geyser that flared out at the top and deluged everything within a radius of hundreds of feet with raw glistening petroleum. As the oil fell, it rapidly collected into large pools, and started running off in every direction where there was a slight slope.

For a few seconds after the tremendous fountain started, Tom stood almost petrified by the magnitude of the spectacle. But the sight of the precious oil running to waste in such huge quantities galvanized Ned and Mr. Damon into action. Mr. Damon danced around, wild with excitement.

“Bless my oil drill!” he shouted. “We’ve struck it! We’ve struck it!”

“That wonderful drill of yours has done the trick!” cried Ned, wringing his friend’s hand.

“We’ve got the oil,” said Tom, who, though pale with excitement, still kept his head. “The thing to do now is to save it.”

The capping outfit with which they hoped to stem the tremendous force of the gusher was of a special design that Tom had worked out. It consisted of an extra heavy gate valve set in a cast steel framework, with heavy steel clamps for holding the entire assembly to the end of the well pipe. In addition to the actual valve and holding mechanism, Tom had contrived an ingenious screw mechanism with which to place the valve over the stream of oil.

“Get busy with that valve,” shouted Tom, his voice rising high above the din.

This was no easy task. In many similar wells, attempts had been made to imprison the oil with heavy timber boxes and framework, but the force of the oil stream is so great that these devices were usually shot up bodily into the air, and only came down in the form of kindling wood. Tom knew this, and in designing his capping mechanism had placed his reliance on steel as being the material best suited to withstand the strain.

Now the time had come when his mechanism was to be put to the test. The riggers soon had the valve and clamping framework as close to the well as they could get, also the sliding carriage, with its rails bolted to concrete foundations that had been prepared for it previously. Everything was now ready for the test, and in feverish excitement they prepared to move the valve over the well.

“Steady, men, steady!” shouted Tom.

The spray of oil and vapor was so dense near the well that it was impossible to get closer than about twenty-five feet and breathe. As it was, every man of the party was soaked and drenched with the clinging oil. Their clothes hung limply about them, and were so saturated and heavy that it was difficult for them even to move.

“Keep your heads, boys,” cautioned Tom, who was now as cool and self-possessed as ever.

Tom had foreseen that his apparatus would have to be worked at some distance from the well, and he had provided a long handle made of piping, which was connected to the screw mechanism. Now the foreman and several of his men began to turn the screw, and the valve moved slowly toward the roaring, spouting stream of oil.

It seemed almost incredible that any mechanism devised by man could withstand that tremendous force. Some of the men actually expected to see the heavy steel castings bent and broken as easily as a man would snap a stick across his knee. But Tom’s designing had been thorough, and he had personally superintended the construction of the mechanism from his plans. Everything was extra heavy and of the best obtainable quality, as it had need to be for such an undertaking as this. When the valve reached the casing, it held true to its place, and the shaft of oil was diverted slightly to one side. The men held their breath as with anxious eyes they followed the progress of the valve across the casing.

Slowly but steadily the drilling crew turned at the screw, slowly the valve moved onward over the casing. The stream of oil roared and hissed as it writhed and twisted about this obstacle, and seemed to be trying to tear it bodily from its anchors. A heavy spray filled the air, and although the men at the screw were half-browned in oil, they stuck gamely to their post.

Farther and farther the column of oil bent, smashing against the steel that barred its path as though determined to destroy it by the force of its mighty onrush. Inexorably the heavy steel carriage, man’s challenge to nature’s might, moved onward, as steady, unhurried, and invincible as fate itself.

Now the column of oil was deflected at an acute angle, farther and farther, until suddenly it divided into two columns, one roaring straight upward again through the valve, while the other was deflected more and more toward the horizontal.

“It’s working all right!” cried Ned exultantly.

“Seems to be,” agreed Tom, watching like a hawk.

Gradually the vertical stream, thin at first, became thicker and heavier, and the other stream grew thinner, until finally the entire shaft of oil was roaring and rushing through the open valve.

Tom and Ned shouted and cheered, while Mr. Damon blessed everything he could think of.

“Bless my dividends!” he cried. “Tom, my boy, you’re a wonder-worker, a magician!”

“I knew you’d do it, old boy!” exclaimed Ned, as he clapped his chum on the shoulder.

“It does look as though we’d won out,” admitted Tom, less exuberant but no less excited than his friends. “But now let’s see if the valve will hold when we close it. The pressure is going to be something fierce.”

The drillers were hardly less elated, and shouted and pounded each other unmercifully. Then they fell to work again, and soon everything was ready for closing the valve.

Tom had made another long handle to connect with the wheel of the valve, but he was too impatient to wait for this to be used. Drawing a long breath, he dashed through the spray of oil close to the well and started turning the hand wheel that operated the gate valve.

From a circular column, the shaft of oil assumed a crescent shape, growing narrower as the gate closed. Thinner and thinner grew the stream, until at length the valve was entirely closed. Then there came a tense moment of waiting. With the tremendous pressure of the imprisoned oil backing up against it, would the valve mechanism stand the strain? Would the framework supporting the valve hold?

Every man stood tense, eyes riveted on the valve.

Attached to the lower part of the capping mechanism was a pressure gauge. As the valve closed, the needle of the gauge began creeping steadily around the dial. When the valve was completely closed, the pressure mounted steadily. Five hundred—six—seven hundred pounds to the square inch, and still the needle moved around the dial. When it finally came to rest, it indicated a confined or “rock” pressure in the well of nine hundred and fifty pounds per square inch!

“Will she hold?” asked Ned anxiously.

“Five minutes will tell,” answered Tom.

Tom had designed his capping mechanism with a generous allowance for overload, and he had no fear of failure, but to the others it seemed incredible that anything could withstand such a tremendous pressure. But as the first anxious moments of waiting passed and nothing happened, their tense nerves relaxed and they ventured to draw long breaths again.

Tom and Ned and Mr. Damon shook hands solemnly, and then in turn shook hands with the drilling boss and each member of the crew. Then, as every man was almost exhausted with his strenuous efforts and the well was safely brought in and capped, all work was discontinued for the time.

“Guess we’ll call it a day,” said Tom.

“And the best day’s work you’ve ever done!” exclaimed Ned.

“Bless my shower bath!” cried Mr. Damon. “We’re as black as coal heavers. Better go and clean up. And these clothes of ours are done for.”

“Guess we can afford to buy others now that we’re oil magnates,” chuckled Tom happily.

The roar of the gusher had been heard for miles around, and in a few hours people were coming from every direction to view the new “strike.” Automobiles, wagons, and buggies came in a constant stream to the Goby farmhouse, and thence to the scene of the drilling. Veteran oil men were amazed to find the new well already capped, and had it not been for the pools of petroleum and the dripping trees in the vicinity, they would have doubted that oil had really been struck.

Usually when oil is struck a week or more 13 spent in designing and making a capping device, while the oil runs to waste, or, at best, is partially reclaimed by pumping it out of the hollows where it has collected. Tom had steered clear of this folly, and when the emergency came he was properly equipped to meet it.

The doubts of the visitors were soon dissipated, especially after they viewed the pressure gauge, which now indicated nine hundred and seventy-five pounds to the square inch.

“Can she stand it?” was the question on every lip.

Tom himself was somewhat worried over this mounting pressure, as he knew that if it kept increasing indefinitely no mechanism could withstand its force. But the pressure never went higher than nine hundred and seventy-eight pounds, and when they later got the well to delivering oil regularly, it dropped somewhat.

The news of the strike soon spread beyond the neighboring towns, got into the papers, and became a subject of nation-wide interest. Newspapers published front-page stories of the new gusher, and in a few days there was a rush of speculators and “wildcatters” from all over the country. There were also many representatives and buyers from big oil companies, who were anxious to buy the Goby farm at almost any figure, and also the adjoining land.

Tom, Mr. Damon and Ned, however, had not been idle in the days following the strike, and they had quietly bought up large tracts of land, on most of which they had had options before oil was discovered. They sold out a few of the smaller of these holdings, and received enough from them to pay all the cost of the drilling and leave a handsome sum besides.

One day a keen-eyed business man separated himself from the group of people who were usually to be found about the well, drawn there by the fascination that always attaches to an oil strike, and introduced himself to Tom. The card he tendered showed that he was the Texas representative of one of the biggest oil companies in the country.

“Struck it rich, I see,” he remarked, with a smile. “From the way that well came in it promises to be one of the biggest gushers in this section. Let’s see, how long have you been digging?”

Tom mentioned the date on which he and his companions had started work.

“Ah,” said the stranger, after a moment of mental figuring, “then I gather that you must have dug down four or five hundred feet before you struck oil.”

“More than that,” replied Tom. “Fourteen hundred feet is nearer the figure.”

The newcomer looked bewildered.

“Then I must have misunderstood you as to the time you started drilling,” he remarked.

“I guess not,” said Tom, repeating the same date as before.

“Oh,” said the man. “I suppose you must have worked in three shifts day and night,” he added.

“No, Mr. Blythe,” replied Tom, with a glance at the card he held in his hand. “We’ve had only the ordinary day crew.”

“Then,” returned Mr. Blythe, “you must have worked in softer soil than I knew was to be found in this section of Texas. Perhaps you didn’t come across rock of any account.”

“On the contrary,” replied Tom, with secret amusement, for he had fathomed the cause of his interrogator’s perplexity, “my foreman tells me that we had to bore through some of the most stubborn rock that he has come across in his long experience. And the specimens we brought up confirm this.”

Mr. Blythe threw up his hands in a gesture of amazement. Tom’s sincerity was apparent, but what he said seemed incredible.

“I give it up!” he exclaimed. “According to all precedent in this oil field, you couldn’t possibly have gone down more than five hundred feet at the outside in the time and under the conditions you mention. What’s the answer?”

“The answer is that in digging this well I’ve used a drill hitherto unused—one of my own invention,” replied Tom.

In an instant Mr. Blythe was aflame with excitement.

“You invented it yourself?” cried Mr. Blythe. “And you’ve dug this well in a third of the time that the ordinary drill requires? Why, Mr. Swift, do you know that you have made one of the most important inventions of this century? Where is the drill? Can I look at it? Have you patented it? Is it for sale? Are you open to a proposition?”

The questions came tumbling from him one after the other in a way that showed plainly how this astute business man had been shaken out of his customary calm.

His agitation helped to confirm Tom’s own conviction that he possessed a fortune in his drill. And since he had it, he was in no haste to let it go to the first bidder. Others would want it too, and he had determined to let them bid against each other. He was not to be rushed off his feet.

“I can’t go into that now, Mr. Blythe,” he said. “In the first place, I have my hands full in arranging to get my oil to market. Then, in such an important thing as the sale of my patent, if I should determine to sell it, I must think things over carefully.”

Mr. Blythe urged and argued, but Tom was not to be shaken.

“Promise me this then,” said Mr. Blythe at last. “Promise that you won’t make any disposition of it until I have had a chance to get in touch with my company and they have had an opportunity to make you an offer.”

“I can’t make promises,” replied Tom.

“Not if I pay you a handsome sum down for your promise to wait three days before you commit yourself to any one else?” asked Mr. Blythe, drawing out his checkbook from his pocket. “That doesn’t put you under any obligation to accept our offer. You can refuse that offer if you like. It simply gives us three days’ time to get in a bid.”

“Put up your checkbook, Mr. Blythe,” replied Tom, with a friendly smile. “I don’t want to be bound in any way. You’ve got the telegraph and the long distance telephone at your disposal, and you can communicate with your New York office. When I have your actual offer in my hand, if your people choose to make one, I promise to give it fair and careful consideration. Further than that I can’t go.”

Baffled for the moment, Mr. Blythe bade Tom a hasty farewell, jumped into his car, and put off toward Copperhead at a speed that threatened to break the laws. Tom looked after him with a smile, and then turned to matters that claimed his immediate attention.

Ned and Mr. Damon were interested and amused when Tom told them that night of his interview with Mr. Blythe.

“Bless my prophetic powers!” cried Mr. Damon. “I told you they’d all be crazy to get hold of it.”

“Let them worry,” said Ned, with a grin. “It will be good for their souls.”

Later Tom gave them a bit of news.

“I’m expecting Rad down here to-morrow or next day,” he remarked. “It looks as though we’d be in this part of the country for quite a time now, and I thought I might as well let him come along. In the last letter I had from Dad, he said that Rad seemed miserable and didn’t know what to do with himself. Said he was making a nuisance of himself about the house. So I wrote and told him to send him down.”

Sure enough, the following day the old negro arrived at the farm. Tom had looked for him by a later train, and so there was no one to meet Rad and he had walked the four miles from the station. He was overjoyed at seeing Tom, and showed every tooth in a glistening smile as his young master met him at the gate.

“Dis sho’ am a sight fo’ sore eyes, Marse Tom, it sho’ am! Seemed lak Ah wouldn’t nebber git here, and den some fool niggah down in de town give me de wrong directions, an’ Ah thought Ah nebber would arrive.”

“Well, I’m mighty glad that you are here, Rad. I felt sure that you’d like this better than loafing around back home. How do you like the little you’ve seen of this oil country?”

“Cain’t say dat Ah t’inks much of it,” he replied, with a gloomy shake of his kinky head. “It seems powerful hilly and all dat, but Ah reckon it cain’t be helped.”

“No,” laughed Tom. “These hills look as though they had been put here to stay. But there’s plenty to eat, and Mr. Goby’s daughter is a good housekeeper and has a fine cook, so possibly you’ll come to like it better after awhile.”

“Dere’s nothin’ like havin’ plenty to eat,” declared Rad, while his glistening countenance assumed its usual happy expression. “Pears to me Ah feels a bit hungry right now,” and he looked hopefully at Tom.

“I imagine dinner will be ready in about an hour, if you think you can survive that long,” Tom informed him.

“Reckon Ah’ll have to stick it out some way,” answered the colored man resignedly. “Wharat am dis yere oil well, Marse Tom? Does you let a bucket down into it an’ tote up some oil when you needs it?”

“Not exactly,” answered Tom, with a grin. “The hard thing to do with this well is to keep the oil in. For some reason or other, it seems very anxious to escape. It was spouting up a hundred feet into the air the day we tapped it.”

Rad rolled his eyes in astonishment, but was too overcome to make any remark. When Tom showed him the capped well he was visibly disappointed. It is hard to say what he expected to see, but evidently the quiet appearance of the well did not impress him much.

“Ah thought dat dis yere well would be raisin’ all kinds o’ ructions, but it looks jest as peaceable as kin be,” he observed. “A fool niggah down at de depot tole me it made a noise dat a feller could heah fo’ miles and miles, but Ah doan heah even a whispah fum it. Reckon dat man mus’ have been jest a plain, ornary prevasticator.”

“The trouble is, you arrived too late, Rad. You should have been here the day the well started. But don’t let that worry you. There’s apt to be plenty of noise and excitement around here before we see Shopton once more. I heard to-day that the Hankinshaw crowd is out after our scalps, and we may have our hands full with them before long.”

That Koku and Rad were glad to be reunited goes without saying, though they were soon engaged as lustily as ever in their vociferous but harmless verbal battles.

Tom had received word that morning from a friend in Copperhead that the Hankinshaw gang were furious over the news of his successful strike, and had sworn to get even by hook or crook. Tom was not sure that this warning should be taken seriously, and yet it might be well to be on his guard, so that afternoon he and Mr. Damon and Ned had a conference to discuss the matter. They decided that about all they could do was to keep a wary eye out for the first hostile move of their enemies, and trust to outwitting them if they could.

“I don’t exactly see what they could do,” mused Ned thoughtfully.

“Of course, there’s always the possibility of personal violence,” returned Tom. “I know that Hankinshaw hates me like poison and he wouldn’t weep any bitter tears if something happened to me. But I’ve handled him before and I can handle him again if he starts anything.”

“I know,” faltered Ned. “But he’s slippery and underhanded, and——”

“He might not face you in the open,” put in Mr. Damon anxiously. “There are a lot of desperate characters hanging around every new oil field, and he might hire some of them to do what he wouldn’t dare to do himself. Be on your guard, my boy. Hankinshaw is a man to be reckoned with.”