Mr. Damon scrutinized it carefully and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Well, that puts you on easy street, anyway,” he said. “They’ll have to come across with the rest now to save what they’ve already invested. But I’m afraid somebody else is in for a trimming.”
“What do you mean by that?” inquired Tom, with quickened interest.
“I heard something when I was on my last trip to New York that set me thinking,” replied Mr. Damon. “I dropped into one of the clubs as the guest of a friend of mine who is a member, and among the people to whom I was introduced was a large Texas oil producer. Of course, that interested me at once, apart from the fact that he was a most entertaining talker. He told me a lot about his own experiences there, and in the course of the conversation got going about the many “wild-catters” that infest the oil fields.
“You know the wild-catter is to the legitimate oil man very much what the bucket-shop keeper is to the solid Wall Street broker. He hates him as he does ivy poison. The shady tricks in which the wild-catter indulges cast a stigma on the whole oil-producing business.
“Well, this man, in giving me some illustrations of wildcat methods, happened to mention the name of Thompson. Said he was one of the most suave and polished individuals that roamed over the oil fields.
“I didn’t let on that I knew any one of that name, but from the description he gave me of his personal appearance and manners, I feel sure that it’s this fellow you’re making this material for. I led him on to tell me what he knew of him, and if what he said is true, this Thompson ought to have his picture in the rogues’ gallery. Not that he ever will probably. He’s too shrewd for that. Always manages somehow or other to keep just within the law.
“Among other things, this new acquaintance of mine said that he’d heard that Thompson and his partners were trying to put something over on an old blind man who owns a likely property at Goby, I think it was, close to one of the big gushers that has come in recently. The old man didn’t want to sell or lease, and the Thompson crowd were determined to make him. Just how they were going to bamboozle him or coerce him, my informant didn’t know, but he had heard enough before he left to be sure that some shenanigan was on foot. Said he’d bet a hundred dollars to a plugged nickel that before many moons had passed the gang would have the property and the blind man would find himself buncoed.”
“So that’s the kind of fellows they are!” exclaimed Tom hotly. “If I weren’t held by my contract I wouldn’t do another jot of work for them.”
“Oh, well, it isn’t a dead certainty that that Thompson and our Thompson are the same man,” said Mr. Damon. “It’s a common enough name, as far as that goes.”