Before incorporating, we (Frank and I), worked the lead claim for nearly two years—or rather, Frank did the work and I paid him one-half of the prevailing miner’s wage. We were trying our best to make a paying mine of it—and may I say that, encouraged by occasional shipments, there were times when we believed we were right at the door of accomplishment.
The point I’m trying to stress here is, that we did not acquire the mining claims for the purpose of launching a stock-selling enterprise, as was so of ter done about that time. But we learned that more often than not even promising mining prospects require the expenditure of more money than we, as individuals, could devote to it—hence the incorporation.
Thus it is that, in the fullness of Time, I have tried mining—to the tune of Six Thousand Dollars, plus; out of pocket—and I’ve tried oil, not once but three times; and I’ve even tried real estate speculation in the boom days of Port Arthur, Texas—all avenues leading up to the coveted get-rich-quick-field—and so help me, I have never taken down a dollar.
I promised my companion of the day that I wouldn’t tell about our “investments” in Port Arthur town lots. But that was a long time ago, between the time he was elected Governor of Kansas, from Nemaha County, and the time he served as Governor of the Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas City, Missouri. So I opine that it doesn’t matter now, since he is safely beyond the pale of political patronage. In the new boom town of Port Arthur that warm January day about the turn of the century, the “boomers” showed us the location, with rock foundation all ready in place, for a bank building, with brick enough piled on the site to build an edifice big enough to house all the money in the world. But the most revealing report I ever got from my friend, the Governor, on our investments, was that the restless bank foundation and its companion brick pile had gone on the prowl, virtually slipped from one end of the plotted business section to the other end, taking now and then a rest period.
The old regulars in our group of “investors” are about all dead now—or have dropped the Big Idea. Joe Searles, at present prescription clerk in a Sabetha drugstore, never in too deeply with the old group, is in line to get his now. He has taken on both leases and royalties in the Strahm field. The development so far has been done by the Carter Oil Company, holding most of the leases. But private interests are trafficking in royalties in a big way. Should Joe make good—that is, break into the big money where the Internal Revenue take would warrant him in throwing away a portion of his winnings in “wildcatting,” I suggest that he come home—and finish the Haigh-Lapham oil test. This—and other betterments for the old home town—is what I planned on doing, had I become burdened with mine-made money.
Also, let it be understood that I took no part in the organization of our group of “investors,” or the promotion of any of our oil speculations.
And now a last word.
Since it appeared that our Southern Kansas co-partners had risked their own money, or more likely their credit, in completing the drilling, incurring disappointment—and, crowded by an unseen hand, (which I believe I could have put my finger on), had taken the wrong way out of the dilemma, and if I were not mistaken they yet had a long, long way to go to get out of the woods; so then, let us be lenient. Why say an unkind word about your neighbor—when it gets you nothing? Don’t know if they ever sold any more of the newly voted stock, or if they did any more drilling. Never heard from them again.
In tolerance of human frailty, let me say that our old Bancroft farmer-friend, allied with keener personalities, had always been a reputable man—that the doctor-secretary, and the merchant-prince apparently stood high among their fellowmen—and then there was Ella J., holder of some mining stock. But, even so, had I not lost interest in the investigation, considered it hopeless, I believe I could have found “sticks” in more than one eye.