Then–the Tarantula showed up with the hull story about coal and oil and gas! Say! the cat was outen the bag. And Goldstone come nigh havin’ a fit and fallin’ in. Here it’d been over a gold-mine, and didn’t know it! And here it’d gone and sole itself out to a passel of strange ducks!
“Feller citizens,” says the paper, “this beautiful city of yourn is destined to rival South McAlester and Colgate.”
That was on a Thursday, if I recollect right. Wal, say! fer the next two days, more things happened in that there town than’d ever happened in the hull county afore. Ev’rybody that could rake, scrape, beg ’r borra was a-doin’ it–so’s they could buy. Friday, the postmaster got a big block from the real-estate gent; same day, kinda as a favour, the doc sold the ticket-agent two ’r three lots. I felt blamed sore ’cause I didn’t have no money to git in on some good deals. But I hung on to the “Lloyd Addition”–I wouldn’t let that git outen my hands. Aw, I ain’t a-goin’ to lie–I had the boom-fever bad as anybody. Fact is, I had it worse. And who wouldn’t–when gettin’ that little gal depended on it?
Saturday, Goldstone went plumb crazy. They was buyin’ and sellin’ back’ards and for’ards, this way and that way, in circles and cater-corners. From sun-up on, that real-estate shanty had half a dozen fellers in it all the time; more was over to the hotel, dickerin’ with Porky; and a lot of others trailed up the parson and the doc. Nobody et ’cause they was too blamed excited. Nobody drunk ’cause they wouldn’t spare the cash. The sun went down, and they kept on a-buyin’. And at midnight, the town went to bed–rich!
The day afterwards was Sunday. And I hope I may die if I ever fergit that Sunday!
When the sun come up, as a story-book’d put it, Goldstone lay as calm and peaceful as a babe, ’cept where some poor devil of a cow-punch was gittin’ along towards his bunk when he oughta been comin’ outen it. But all else was O. K. Weather fine, ev’rybody well, thank y’, and land so high it’s a wonder the temper’ture wasn’t gittin’ low.
But ain’t it funny how quick things can change?
First off, some of us boys went over to that real-estate hogan–and found the door open and the place stripped. Yas, ma’am; duds gone, pictures gone. Only the bench and the table left.
“What struck him?” ast the postmaster, who was comin’ by.
“I guess,” says a feller, careless, “–I guess he’s moved into a better office, mebbe.”