“Good-morning, Roy,” he said. “How would you like to take a little trip over to the oil fields? I have to go over there for the captain and I’d be glad to take you along.”
“How far is it, and how long will it take?” inquired Roy.
“About sixty miles, I suppose. It will likely take us two hours to run over.”
“Thank you,” said Roy. “I’ll be mighty glad to go. I have never seen an oil-well.”
They ferried across the bay to Port Bolivar and there took a train for the oil fields. Soon Roy was very glad indeed that he had come. Everything was different from what he was accustomed to at home. The country was low and level. Nowhere was there an elevation that could be called a hill. In the open spaces he could see for miles and miles over the flat land. His view in this direction was almost as unlimited as it was on the ocean. To Roy, accustomed as he was to hills and mountains, this flat land seamed monotonous and uninteresting. In places he saw herds of cattle on these open reaches, and cowboys galloping on horseback. For a considerable stretch Roy and his comrade rode over the bare, level prairie. Then they came to some bits of woodland.
“I never realized before,” said Roy, “how beautiful trees are. Look at that fine grove over there.”
“Down here they call a grove like that a motte,” rejoined Roy’s companion with a smile.
“A what?” ejaculated Roy in astonishment.
“A motte. It means a little grove of trees in a prairie.”
“Well, that’s a new one to me,” said Roy.