“It won’t take us very long to lay the line, once we get the pipe,” remarked Tom. “If only we had been absolutely sure that we were going to strike oil, we could have ordered it months ago, and had it here all ready and waiting now.”
“Bless my thick skull! that’s true, Tom,” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “But none of us are prophets, and eight-inch pipe isn’t the cheapest thing in the world to buy. That’s one of the things we simply had to let go until we knew we had the oil to put through it. We don’t need to worry, anyway. The main thing is that we’ve got the oil, and a week or so’s delay won’t hurt us. It will give us a chance to rest up.”
Luckily for Tom and his friends, they did not have to have pumping stations, as their well was on comparatively high ground, and there was a continual slope from there to Copperhead. All they had to do was to run their eight-inch pipe line to the town and empty it into a concrete tank. This tank had already been started several days before, and they expected to have it completed by the time they got the oil line connected up.
Urgent telegraph and telephone calls hurried up shipments of pipe, and in a few days it began to come in. Tom directed the laying. The men all liked the young inventor and worked willingly and untiringly at his bidding, but at best it was slow work getting those four miles of pipe laid. In spite of his desire for speed, Tom would not allow any careless work, and each joint had to be made to his satisfaction before another could be bolted up.
They laid the pipe in shallow trenches and covered it a few inches deep with dirt. Length after length, it grew steadily.
It looked like plain sailing then, but for some unexplainable reason, after they had started the line from the well, the valve started to leak. Probably the tremendous pressure of the oil behind it had opened up some little flaw in the gate or seat, and oil started coming through—not in any great quantity, to be sure, but still there was a constant stream, which ran through the pipe and made it difficult to join the sections together and kept the men constantly dripping with the thick brown liquid.
Tom would not admit it, but he was worried. He knew that the leak might get worse, that the valve might give out altogether and release the imprisoned oil. His first act was to telegraph for a new valve. After that, he gave orders to have the new pipe line disconnected close to the well. This stopped the oil running through the line, but of course it ran out into the ground instead and trickled down the hill in every direction. However, the leakage was not large as yet, and if it got no worse would not be a serious thing. It meant some loss of oil, but it would be for only a few days, until they could get the line connected to the tank in Copperhead.
“Bless my forebodings! I don’t like it, just the same,” said Mr. Damon, with a shake of his head. “It takes away my confidence, Tom. If that valve can leak a little, it can leak a lot, and I expect almost any old time to hear it let go.”
“It’s possible,” admitted Tom. “No use worrying about it, though. I don’t like to see our good oil going to waste any more than you do, but I guess it won’t amount to very much, after all. There’ll be plenty left in the well, Mr. Damon.”
“Dat stuff doan look like oil, nohow,” said Rad, who was an interested spectator of all that was going on. “Dat looks mo’ lak good ole molasses to me.”