"They can't be," the child argued, stubbornly. "India and China and Spain and Africa."
Milly Pardee had turned accusing eyes on her amused husband. "I hope you're satisfied."
He shrugged. "Well, the kid's right. That's living."
She disputed this, fiercely. "It is not. Living's staying in a place, and helping it grow, and growing up with it and belonging. Belong!" It was the cry of the rolling stone that is bruised and weary.
Sam Pardee left for Oklahoma the following week. Milly Pardee refused to accompany him. It was the first time she had taken this stand. "If you go there, and like it, and want to settle down there, I'll come. I know the Bible says, 'Whither thou goest, I will go,' but I guess even What'shername would have given up at Oklahoma."
For three years, then, Sam Pardee's letters reeked of oil: wells, strikes, gushers, drills, shares, outfits. It was early Oklahoma in the rough. This one was getting five hundred a day out of his well. That one had sunk forty thousand in his and lost out.
"Five hundred what?" Maxine asked. "Forty thousand what?"
"Dollars, I guess," Milly Pardee answered. "That's the way your father always talks. I'd rather have twenty-five a week, myself, and know it's coming without fail."
"I wouldn't. Where's the fun in that?"
"Fun! There's more fun in twenty-five a week in a pay envelope than in forty thousand down a dry well."