A derrick lamp cast an uncertain light over the scene, and threw long wavering shadows across the floor. Brace Barlow worked the temper screw, and turned the drill after each stroke, so as to insure its cutting a perfectly round hole. His assistant labored at the little, glowing forge in one corner. Here he heated the extra drills, and, on the anvil beside him, beat their blunted points into sharp, cutting edges with a heavy hammer.
There was a steady clangor of noise within the boarded structure; while outside the wind howled dismally. Conversation would have been difficult; and, under the circumstances, there was nothing that any of the three men cared to say. Colonel Dale’s face grew whiter and whiter, as the slow hours passed, and the monotonous working of the tools produced no result. His eyes were fixed upon the great drill rope, as it moved steadily up and down, but he did not see it. He saw his dearly loved grandson, and his niece, thrown on the charity of the world. He saw Dalecourt, his once beautiful home, and the home of his fathers, passing from him, and occupied by strangers. He saw himself ruined and helpless, pointed at by men as an old fool, who had persisted in squandering his money on a reckless adventure that everybody told him would only result in failure.
He hardly knew when the monotonous throb of the machinery ceased; but, in the stillness that followed, he heard the tones of Brace Barlow’s voice, something like those of a judgment. Standing respectfully and pityingly before him, the young man said:
“I hate to tell you, Colonel; but it’s no use drilling any further. We’ve gone clean through the sand without a show. I don’t understand it, but it’s so all the same, and it would be foolish to spend any more money on such a ‘duster’ as this hole has proved.”
“Very well, Mr. Barlow,” replied Colonel Dale, speaking calmly and without a trace of emotion, “pay off the men and discharge them. I am going to the house for a nap. Please see that I am not disturbed or awakened.” Then the stricken man, with the merciless hand of ruin clutching at his throat, walked slowly away from the scene of his high hopes and bitter disappointment.
In the stillness that followed the stopping of the machinery, Brace Barlow’s words had been plainly heard by the oil scout, who crouched, wet, cold, and well-nigh exhausted, in his hiding-place close beside the derrick. It was what he had waited for; and, an hour later, the news of the failure of the Dale-Dustin wild-cat well was flashing far and wide over the wires.
Soon afterward all the world knew of it—that is, all the oil world or the world that cared to know of such things. The greater part of this world rejoiced at the news. It was not exactly envy or jealousy that caused their rejoicing, but perhaps it was a mixture of the two. At any rate it was that unkind feeling that prompts so many of us to secretly dislike the person whom we are congratulating on a success, and, again, to secretly rejoice over his misfortunes, while outwardly sympathizing with him. A few, a very few people were really grieved by the news and were sincerely sorry for the old man and the boy whose hopes were dashed by it.
Deacon Thackby was sorry, but at the same time he found great satisfaction in saying: “You remember I told you how it would be, an I give the Cunnel a fair warnin.”
Brace Barlow was sorry; sorry from the very bottom of his great, honest heart; but as he could find no words to express his sorrow he went away without having said that he was.
The scouts were sorry; not that it made any great difference to them, only it would have been so much more fun if the well had proved a “gusher” instead of a “duster.” Still, as they philosophically remarked, it would all be the same in the long run. So, after visiting the now lonely and deserted well to assure themselves that the report concerning it was true, they packed their hand-bags and departed in search of new “mysteries.” Only one of their number remained behind, and he was the one who, having crouched beside the derrick all night long, was so worn out that he slept through the greater part of the following day. When he awoke his companions had departed, and as the last train of that day had also gone he was forced to remain where he was until the next morning.