“Did you sell?”
Uncle Billy chuckled. “They up an’ offered me a royalty of one-eighth of ther whole production. They proved hit up ter me by ’rithmetic an’ algebry how hit would make me rich over an’ above all avarice—but I said no, I wouldn’t take no eighth. I stud out fer a sixteenth by crickety!”
Both Spurrier and Wharton smothered their laughter as the latter inquired gravely: “Did they play one of them royalty games.”
“They done better’n thet. They said, ‘We’ll give ye two sixteenths,’ an’ thet’s when I ’lowed I was es good es a Pierpont Morgan. I wouldn’t nuver hurt fer no needcessity no more.”
“And what was the outcome of it all?” asked Wharton.
Uncle Jimmy’s face darkened. “The come-uppance of ther whole blame business war thet a lot of pore devils what hed done been content with poverty found hit twice as hard ter go on bein’ pore because they’d got to entertainin’ crazy dreams ther same as me. Any man thet talks oil ter me now’s got ter buy outright an’ pay me spot cash. I ain’t playin’ no more of them royalty games.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Wharton. “But it seems to me that you people are taking the wrong tack. Because the boom collapsed once, you are shutting the door against the possibility of its coming again—and it’s going to come again.”
“A man kin git stung once,” volunteered another native, “an’ hit’s jest tough luck or bewitchment. Ef he gits stung twicet on ther same trumpery, he ain’t no more then a plum’, daft fool.”