“There’s no dust in that blessed hole this time!” cried Brace. “She’s a ‘gusher’ if there ever was one, and her like hasn’t been seen for many a day.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
SAVED BY THE SIGN OF THE TRAMP.
It rarely happens, in real life, that people are lifted from the profoundest depths of grief, poverty, and misfortune, to such heights of joy and promised prosperity, as was the case with those whose fortunes depended on the success or failure of the Dale-Dustin oil well, on the memorable morning of Brace Barlow’s great shot. For many weeks they had been weighed down by anxiety, and filled with mingled hopes and fears. For hours they had been prostrated by what seemed utter and unavoidable ruin. The night had been passed in hopeless sorrow, but in an instant it was swept away. The rising sun, shining full on that gleaming column of oil, hurling its mighty torrent from the mysterious recesses where it had lain hidden for untold ages, filled their hearts with its gladness and unspeakable glory. For some minutes they could only gaze upon the scene that it disclosed with incredulous wonder and amazement.
To Colonel Dale and his niece, who had never before witnessed the shooting of an oil well, the sight was a miracle, and they were at a loss to account for it.
To Arthur and Brace Barlow, who had not dared hope for such wonderful results from their torpedo, that golden fountain of oil was at the moment the most beautiful and desirable thing on earth.
At length, withdrawing his fascinated gaze from it, Arthur saw his grandfather standing bareheaded, bewildered, and motionless, near the open door of the frame house. Running to him the excited boy flung himself into his arms, crying:
“Oh, grandpapa, we’ve shot the ‘duster’ and turned it into the most beautiful ‘gusher’ that ever was seen! Isn’t it perfectly splendid! And we are the very most genuine kind of ‘chumps,’ after all, aren’t we? And I never was so happy in all my life! Were you, grandpapa?”
“No, my boy, I don’t believe I ever was,” answered Colonel Dale, in a voice almost choked with emotion, “unless it was when you came to me to be the joy and pride of my old age.”
Then Miss Hatty, who had hastily dressed herself, came running down-stairs; and she cried and laughed at the same time, as she threw her arms about the boy and called him her young “oil Prince,” and declared that he was the dearest, and wisest, and most lovable oil Prince in all the world.
Beside them stood shy little Cynthia, gazing at the marvel with wide open eyes, half-frightened and not knowing what to say, but thrilled with the great happiness and excitement of those about her.