nderness. "I didn't
dream it was as bad as that. You've been worrying all this time and you
never let me know."

He stroked her hair fondly. "You're the blamedest little mother ever I
did see--always was. Now don't you fret. It'll work out somehow. Things
do."

CHAPTER XXI

THE HOLD-UP

To Sanders, working on afternoon tower at Jackpot Number Three, the lean,
tanned driller in charge of operations was wise with an uncanny knowledge
the newcomer could not fathom. For eight hours at a stretch he stood on
the platform and watched a greasy cable go slipping into the earth. Every
quiver of it, every motion of the big walking-beam, every kick of the
engine, told him what was taking place down that narrow pipe two thousand
feet below the surface. He knew when the tools were in clay and had
become gummed up. He could tell just when the drill had cut into hard
rock at an acute angle and was running out of the perpendicular to follow
the softer stratum. His judgment appeared infallible as to whether he
ought to send down a reamer to straighten the kink. All Dave knew was
that a string of tools far underground was jerking up and down
monotonously.

This spelt romance to Jed Burns, superintendent of operations, though he
would never have admitted it. He was a bachelor; always would be one.
Hard-working, hard-drinking, at odd times a plunging gambler, he lived
for nothing but oil and the atmosphere of oil fields. From one boom
to another he drifted, as inevitably as the gamblers, grafters, and
organizers of "fake" companies. Several times he had made fortunes, but
it was impossible for him to stay rich. He was always ready to back a
drilling proposition that looked promising, and no independent speculator
can continue to wildcat without going broke.

He was sifting sand through his fingers when Dave came on tower
the day after the flood. To Bob Hart, present as Crawford's personal
representative, he expressed an opinion.

"Right soon now or never. Sand tastes, feels, looks, and smells like oil.
But you can't ever be sure. An oil prospect is like a woman. She will or
she won't, you never can tell which. Then, if she does, she's liable to
change her mind."

Dave sniffed the pleasing, pungent odor of the crude oil sands. His
friend had told him that Crawford's fate hung in the balance. Unless oil
flowed very soon in paying quantities he was a ruined man. The control of
the Jackpot properties would probably pass into