To a very small, almost unnoticed portion of the world, the news that the well was a “duster” caused not only unfeigned sorrow, but genuine consternation. Miss Hatty had always been hopeful of its success, while Arthur had never for a moment doubted it. He had such absolute faith that the oil was there and would be found that, with Cynthia’s help, he had made plans for years to come, all based upon the striking of oil in the Dale-Dustin well, and the income to be derived from it. He had not only planned the restoration of Dalecourt and laid out his own career as a railroad man, but he had given to all of his friends, and especially to those who had been kind to him and Uncle Phin on their journey, everything that they most desired.
To Cynthia this had all seemed so real that for several days she had been in a state of mental bewilderment, trying to decide upon what she did most desire. To have this responsibility lifted from her mind by the refusal of the oil well to provide even the smallest income with which Arthur’s plans might be carried out, was really a great relief to the little girl. Still she could and did sympathize with Arthur’s distress, and tried, in her childish way, to comfort him by telling him not to mind, that it didn’t matter very much any how, and that there were lots of good times left.
But Arthur did mind, though it was more for his grandfather’s sake than for his own. Brace Barlow had awakened him at daylight by throwing pebbles against his window, to tell him the sad news, and ask him to warn his cousins that Colonel Dale had just gone to bed utterly exhausted, and must not be disturbed.
Arthur told Miss Hatty and Cynthia, and, after they had eaten a sorrowful breakfast, they sat and talked of their grief in whispers and low, awed tones, as though somebody had died.
Miss Hatty, who realized more fully than anybody else her uncle’s position, and what utter ruin this blow meant for him, was more distressed even than Arthur, and he almost forgot his own sorrow in his efforts to comfort her.
“Don’t cry, Cousin Hatty,” he pleaded, as he gently smoothed her hair, and wondered in his boyish fashion what good crying could do in such a case as this. “It isn’t so bad after all, when you come to think of it,” he continued. “Really it isn’t. Even if we can’t go back to Dalecourt, we have got this place, and it’s a great deal better than some places, you know, and your mamma and Uncle Phin can come here to live with us, and I can do lots of things to earn money, and we can be just as happy as anything. I ought to be the one to work for the rest anyhow, because it must have been my knowing so much about oil wells that spoiled this one. I never did feel like a real truly chump, but I thought perhaps you and grandpapa could make up. I am afraid though the trouble was that it was more my well than anybody else’s, and so you being chumps didn’t do any good.”
“You are a dear, blessed little comforter!” cried Miss Hatty, throwing her arms about her “Prince Dusty” and giving him a great hug. She even smiled through her tears, whereupon the boy declared that he could almost see a tiny rainbow at the ends of her eye-lashes.
Then the children went out, but it was only to walk soberly up to the now silent derrick where it was so lonely, and seemed so queer, that they did not care to stay long.
CHAPTER XXXII.
SHOOTING A “DUSTER.”
The long, solemn day wore itself slowly away, and the weight of a great calamity was so heavy upon it that everybody was glad when night came and it was time to go to bed.