The Fiscal Agent’s secretary, or outside girl, stationed near his private office—he had a better looking secretary in his office—said she believed the “boss” was not in. I gave her my name and stated my business. She went into the private office, and returned saying, Mr. so-and-so would see me. However, had I been a questionable caller, the outside girl would have told me upon returning that he was not in, and that she had learned from his inside secretary that he had gone out of town and would not be back that day. This was the system. The “boss” did not want to see any of his subscribers—nor an officer of the law.
One of those Kansas City promotion companies was selling stock in what was called a Ten Million Dollar Development—that is, ten million shares, par-value one dollar, sold at two cents a share, the idea being to offer the purchaser a lot for little money, out in our mining district in Nevada. It was highly advertised as the “Extension of the Great (Searchlight) Quartette Vein.” The outfit was actually sinking a shaft about a half-mile out in the valley west of the mountain-situated Quartette mine—a rich gold producer—without reasonable chance of picking up anything in the way of values. Too many promotions like this were victimizing the people. The Blue Sky Board’s function was to keep them out of Kansas.
In our own mine promotion, I did some newspaper advertising in Topeka—but, first, I had to get a clearance from the Blue Sky Board (in Bank Commissioner Dolley’s office) showing that our company was on the square; that the stock was a fair risk; that purchasers were fully and truthfully informed; and most important of all, that the purchasers would get a run for their money—meaning that the money so collected must not be used in paying for a “dead horse.”
On full-page advertising in a number of papers, I received on the average one inquiry for each 3,000 circulation—but I sold practically all of them. This was only about one-hundredth part of the returns the Kansas City fellows were getting. And I had strong copy, too. The newspaper boys said it was unusually strong. But I made the mistake—from the promoter’s view point—of telling the readers the truth, that we had not carried the proposition to a point where we were about ready to begin handing out dividends, which was the Kansas City boy’s big drawing card. This was costing too much—and I discontinued selling the stock, hoping that we might yet find an Agent who would have better luck. We used up the funds on hand; then went at it individually again. And the six miners continued on the job, taking their full wages in our treasury stock.
Let it be understood that the mining stock I sold was far from being in the blue sky class—and that the job of selling it was “wished” on me. While in the process of incorporating, our president, Frank Williams, had made tentative arrangements with Los Angeles “Fiscal Agents”—that’s what they called themselves then—to sell our treasury stock, but failed to conclude a satisfactory contract with them. He had encountered the same questionable line of approach out there that caused me to turn down the Kansas City “Fiscal Agents.”
Might say that in the first place, on his recommendation, I had joined Frank Williams in the purchase of the initial lead-zinc-vanadium claim—only lead discovered then—on which our corporation was mainly based. Included in the corporation also were three (gold) claims in the Crescent district, owned by Frank and his brother Tommy Williams, A. M. Harter, and Jonah Jones. These Crescent claims were taken in on a basis of one-sixth of the combined value. Our lead claim had the further approval of that veteran millionaire miner, Green Campbell—indeed, had he not died suddenly of pneumonia, Green, instead of I, would have been Frank’s partner. Frank had been with Green Campbell, and his uncle Elwood Thomas—all three of the men former Wetmore citizens, in the Goodsprings district for twelve years, at that time.
Then, too, those Crescent gold claims held appeal. What think you that your heart would have done to you, had you been able to go out on your own holdings and scrape up dirt—disintegrated rock, assaying $544 gold to the ton—at a time when the fabulous production of the not too distant Comstock mines in Nevada, with less glowing beginning, was being proclaimed all over the land as having saved the credit of the Nation during Civil War days.
And, by the way, isn’t it about time for us to dig again?
Please—somebody, anybody, everybody—pray with me for a redeeming Comstock as of yore, only let it be such stepped up magnitude as to save, beyond the possibility of a slip, the credit of our Uncle Sam, even in his magnanimous undertaking to tide, piggyback, all those unstable old country states over the troubled waters of world unrest—in an effort to convince a certain belligerent-minded Old World character that war is, a la Sherman, indeed “hell.”
But remember, mines are made—not found.