And the Deacon did tell Colonel Dale how foolishly he was, wasting his money, and how perfectly useless it was to drill for oil in that part of the country, where, if there was any, it would have been discovered long ago.
“Has anybody tried sinking a well in this vicinity?” asked Colonel Dale.
“Yes, thar was Sile Pettis put one down ’bout a year ago; but it didn’t mount to nothing. Thar warn’t no ile into it.”
“How deep did he sink it?” inquired the Colonel, with interest.
“Well, not more than four hundred foot or so,” admitted the Deacon, reluctantly.
“And the ‘third sand,’ which is the only one in this region that pays—or at least so I am told,” remarked the Colonel, “is hardly ever struck at a less depth than one thousand feet. Is Mr. Sile Pettis’ unproductive well the only thing that makes you think there is no oil about here, Deacon?”
“Thar ain’t no surface indications, like thar should be if the ile was right down under us.”
“That is something we must provide for at once,” laughed Arthur’s grandfather. “I realize that we must have them, Deacon, and just as soon as I get this well down a thousand feet I will try and show you some of the finest surface indications in the country.”
CHAPTER XXX.
THE DALE-DUSTIN MYSTERY.
Although Colonel Dale talked thus bravely and cheerfully, he could not drive away a heavy, sinking feeling from his heart, nor prevent the furrows in his face from growing deeper and deeper, as he thought of how much depended upon the result of this experiment that everybody about him said was such a foolish waste of both time and money.