by Lois Lenski
“Why, Orville Robinson!” exclaimed Mama. “Me the President of the W.C.T.U. and you sellin’ whisky bottles!” She lowered her voice. “Who did you sell them to?”
“Nicky Grimes,” confessed Orvie. “Charley took me to Nicky’s house, he knows where he lives—it’s not far from here. Nicky’s odd, Mama, but he was awful friendly and he laughed a lot and he give us five cents apiece for the bottles. I split with Charley. Thirty bottles at five cents apiece come to a dollar fifty, so we each got seventy-five cents. Charley said Nicky is called a boot … a bootlegger … that was it.”
“Give me that money, Orvie,” said Mama.
Orvie put the coins in Mama’s outstretched hand.
“I hate to even touch it,” she said.
“I can’t have it—to spend?” asked Orville.
“No,” said Mama. “Do you know what a bootlegger is and what he does?”
“No Mama,” said Orvie.
“He makes strong drink secretly,” said Mama. “Oklahoma’s a dry state and it’s against the law to make and sell it. So he breaks the law when he makes it. He’ll put it in those bottles you took to him and sell it to people secretly, and they’ll drink it and get drunk. Drinking and drunkenness ruin people’s lives and cause nothing but unhappiness. Did you know that?”
“No Mama,” said Orvie.
“Well, you know it now and I don’t want you to forget it.”
“I won’t do it again, Mama. But can’t I have even a nickel of the money?” begged Orvie.
“No,” said Mama. “We’ll put it in the collection plate on Sunday. That way we’ll know it will do a little good.”
Just then Grandpa came in and Mama told him what had happened.
“Don’t surprise me none,” said the old man.
“Grandpa, Charley took me over to Pistol Hill and showed me where a man was killed last night,” said Orvie. “Did you ever see a man get killed?”
“Oh, how can I raise my boys in a place like this?” cried Mama. “All this meanness and cuttin’ up and even killin’ going on on all sides …” She began to cry again.
Grandpa put his arm around her shoulder.
“The boy’s got a lot to learn, Jennie,” he said to Mama. “He’ll learn it a little faster since oil’s brought it so close to us, but it won’t harm him none. Orvie’s made of good stuff. He might as well learn young that there are all kinds of people in the world, evil as well as good.”
Mama hurried out to the kitchen, saw that Della had put the loaves of bread into the oven, and was washing the dinner dishes. “I must bring that bedding in and make up the beds,” she said, going out into the yard. In a moment she was back, visibly upset.
“Good land, what next! Two quilts are gone. That blue check from Orvie’s bed and your pink flowered one, Della—they’re gone.”
“Gone?” echoed Della and Orvie. “Where could they go to?”
“Somebody took them. We’re living in a nest of thieves. I hung those two quilts on the line this morning,” said Mama, “and now they’re gone.”
“With all these strangers coming into the yard,” said Della, “what can you expect?”
Mama went upstairs to make the beds, then went outside to look for the quilts again. She was in the side yard when Mr. Waterman appeared. Mama promised to get his cot made up, but did not notice how excited he was, or understand what he meant when he said he might not sleep in it after all. Mama was tired that night and went to bed early, so she did not know till the next morning that the men and boys never went to bed at all.
Orvie slept doubled up on the porch swing, wrapped in a comfort. He heard Mr. Waterman come up on the porch, sit on the cot for a while, then get up. Orvie threw off his comfort and followed. There was no moon and the oil well with its bright lights looked like a wonderful Christmas tree shining in the darkness. They sat up all night in the doghouse, and even Orvie did not get sleepy because something was expected to happen every minute. But it didn’t.
Everybody talked excitedly the next morning, and the men and boys went back to the well right after breakfast. Mama caught two hens, chopped their heads off and scalded them. She was out behind the house, picking feathers off the second hen, when No. 1 Robinson blew in. Mama stood still and looked when she heard the loud explosion.
Gas came first, smothering the derrick in a white cloud of fumes. Then a fountain of thick black crude oil spouted up from the deep hole it had taken three long months to drill. It spouted high into the air, and a shower of oil and rocks peppered the Robinson house on the north.
Mama ran over to where all the people were standing. Della and Addie came along too.
“When do I get my new silk dress, Mama?” cried Addie, remembering how she had wished the well in so long ago.
“Better stand up wind,” yelled Grandpa, “so you won’t get covered with oil.”
Orvie hurried over to Mama. “The bailer got thrown to the top of the derrick!” he shouted.
“The bailer? What’s that?” asked Mama.
“It’s a long bucket thing that they bail sand and mud out with,” said Orvie. “When they see oil in it, they know she’s comin’, and oh boy! How she did come!”
People began to arrive from all directions. They came afoot, in wagons, buggies and cars. Big cars with town people, Fords and wagons with country people, everybody came to see the excitement. People stood about, talking, pointing and laughing. They kept coming all day long.
Orvie was so excited and happy, he felt as if he would burst. So much was happening, he just stood and watched.
He saw men throwing their hats up in the air. He saw Grandpa with a bottle of oil in his hands, walking about in puddles of oil, spoiling his shoes. He saw an oil man, dressed in leather, dance about and yell at the top of his voice, then bend over and wash his hands and face in oil, while the people shouted and laughed. He saw Jim Waterman rushing about, telling men not to smoke or light a match, because of the fire hazard from the escaped gas. He saw Slim Rogers, covered with oil from head to toe, a broad smile breaking through his oil-stained face, wave a greasy hand to Della. He saw Mama crying and wondered what she was crying for.
Then Bert came up from the barn. Bert stood with his hands in his pockets, glaring at the derrick. Orvie ran over to him.
“Golly! Ain’t you glad, Bert?” he asked. “Now you can get a new tractor.”
Bert turned on him angrily. “You little fool, what do I want with a tractor—now that the farm’s ruined?”
“What? You’re not glad?” Orvie pranced about. “Betcha we’ll be rich now. Betcha Papa’ll give me a nickel to spend every week without me even askin’ him.”
Bert turned and went back to the barn.
People kept on coming. The road was crowded with cars, smashing each other’s fenders and locking bumpers. They were racing to see who could get there first. Strangers came in and filled the yard, acting as if they owned the well themselves.
People crowded around the Robinsons and kept asking: “What are you going to do with all your money?” The Stringtown people and the campers from the creek joined the crowd. People never friendly before became close friends in a minute. Walt Pickering put one arm around Papa and the other around Grandpa. “Ain’t it wonderful? Ain’t it wonderful?” he shouted.
The people asked Papa to say something. He turned a large wash-tub over and stood on it. “Folks,” he said “this has happened so all-fired sudden, we’re not used to it yet … but I guess we’ll buy us a new car … before our old Ford falls to pieces …”
Mama dried her eyes, got-up on the tub and added: “And then we’ll move to town!”
“What you gonna do with that chicken?” called a voice from the crowd.
Mama looked down and was surprised to see that she still held the half-plucked hen in her hand.
“Stew it for supper!” she cried, laughing.
“Hooray! Hooray!”
Then Grandpa took the tub. “Friends, this is the happiest day of
my life,” he said. “I’ve known for thirty years there was oil under this farm—that’s why I’ve hung onto it through thick and thin. When the drillers talked about quittin’, I says, ‘You’re not quttin’ now. You suckers go ahead and drill a little deeper and you’ll get it.’ They drilled down a little ways, got to the bottom of that sand—and there she was, and here she is now, spoutin’ out over the top! We’re all gonna have things a little easier now. Too much hard work ain’t good for nobody. It sure is great to be RICH!”
After a while Slim hurried over to Mama and Della and Addie.
“When do I get my new silk dress, Slim?” demanded the little girl.
“Tomorrow!” answered Slim. “You sure wished hard, Addie, to bring all this oil!”
“Just look what you did to our house, Slim,” scolded Mama. “The whole side and all the windows covered with oil.”
“We can’t see out of a single window, Slim,” added Della, laughing. “What do you mean, makin’ me all that extra work?”
“Just as soon as I get this gusher under control,” laughed Slim, “I’ll come over and help you wash windows.”
“Oh, will you, Slim?” cried Della. “Just look at your clothes. How are you ever going to get all that oil out of them?”
“Oh, I’ll blow ’em out,” said Slim. “We got the steam piped into a box-doin’s over there by the doghouse. We put our greasy clothes in there and let ’em steam, then hang ’em on the fence …”
“I’ll hang ’em on the clothesline for you, Slim,” said Della. But Slim had hurried back to his work.
After everybody was gone, Orvie sat down in the little house under the cottonwood tree to talk to Grandpa. His face was still beaming with joy.
“I knew it was coming,” he said. “Slim told me three weeks ago. Even when it didn’t come all last night, I still knew it was coming.”
“I’ve known it for thirty years,” said Grandpa quietly.
“I’m glad I’ve already quit school,” said Orvie.
“Quit school?” inquired Grandpa.
“Yes,” said Orvie. “Three weeks ago when Slim first told me, I brought my books home. I’m not going back.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you see the only thing an education is good for is to help a man get a living,” said Orvie. “Now that we’ve struck oil, we’ll be rich and I won’t have to work for a living. So I don’t need to go to school any more.”
“Gonna sit around all your life and twiddle your thumbs, boy?”
Orvie laughed.
“Have you told your Mama?” asked Grandpa.
“No,” said Orvie. “There’s no need to mention it. You won’t tell her, will you?”
“No,” said Grandpa. The old man had not the heart to mar the boy’s perfect happiness. He knew how rarely such happiness came in a lifetime.
“She’ll find out soon enough,” said Orvie.
“She sure will,” said Grandpa.
CHAPTER VIII
The Milk Route
Mama did find out soon enough. After a few days, when the excitement had died down, she asked Orvie, “Why aren’t you in school?”
Orvie tried to tell her what he had told Grandpa, but Mama would not listen. “You get off to school now or I’ll box your ears good,” she said. “Bring your books home every night, to make up what you’ve missed.”
“But there’s no place to do homework,” wailed Orvie. “The house is all filled with people sleeping everywhere …”
“You can study in the kitchen,” said Mama.
The sudden growth of the town of Whizzbang had doubled Bert’s milk route. He had twice as many customers as before, and every day brought new ones from the increasing number of oil workers. He drove the Ford, and besides milk, carried eggs and dressed chickens to sell. He served the restaurants, boarding houses and cafés as well as private families.
Mama decided that Orvie should get his morning chores done earlier, so he could go on the milk route with Bert. He was to carry the bottles from the car to the houses, to save Bert time. The route was planned so that Bert could drop Orvie off near the school just before the last bell rang.
Wet weather and muddy roads continued through April, and Papa bought Knobby Tread tires which did not skid so much.
It was a wet morning the day that Orvie started back to school. The Ford made a number of stops at the row of box-car houses down around the corner. It was very early, and most of the people were not up yet. Orvie took six quarts of milk at a time in his wire basket, and ran from one house to the next. At the Osage Torpedo house, the people were stirring, and there on the doorstep stood the girl who had told him her name was Bonnie Jean. Orvie remembered about the dynamite.
“They’ve built a nitro-glycerin storage house on our place, back in the field,” he told her. “When they wash out the buckets, they go boom-boom-boom. It shakes our house all over.”
“They blow ’em up,” said Bonnie Jean, taking the milk bottle. “You better stay away from there—it’s dangerous.”
“Say—oh say …” Orvie hesitated. “You started in school yet?”
“Why yes,” said Bonnie Jean. “I started the very next day after we moved here.”
“You did? Will you be at school today?” asked Orvie.
“Sure,” said Bonnie Jean.
Orvie ran back to the car. The Ford traveled over the oil field in the section north of the Robinson farm, now called the Watkins lease, and stopped at Company houses recently built there, then came to the business part of town. It reached Bascom’s boarding house just as breakfast was being served. Two untidy girls were waiting on long tables filled with men just inside the door.
“Take the milk into the kitchen,” said Bert, “then come back for these eggs and chickens that Biddy ordered. Don’t get scared of the old woman—she won’t bite you.”
Orvie went in at the open door.
“Hi, bub! Who are you?” called one of the men.
“You’re Bert’s brother Orvie, I bet.” Biddy came forward, all smiles.
She started to pat him on the head, but Orvie dodged. He couldn’t help staring at her. She wore three different skirts with an apron on top, long pantaloons below, and a sagging slip-on sweater around her waist. She walked on crutches, dragging one foot.
“I got banged up in an automobile accident,” she explained, “one time when I was hitch-hiking. They wanted to cut my foot off, but I wouldn’t let ’em. I can still hop around.”
The men laughed and began teasing her.
“Now Orvie, my boy, put that milk out in the kitchen.”
Orvie ducked into the back part of the house, returned, and brought in the eggs and chickens.
“How’s that pretty sister of yours?” called the men.
Then Orvie saw Slim Rogers. He hadn’t known where he lived before. Slim got up and stopped him just inside the door. “I’m going to be working at No. 2 Robinson,” he said. “Tell Della, won’t you?”
“Sure will!” called the boy.
“Hurry up!” scolded Bert when Orvie got back to the car. “If you want to get to school on time, you mustn’t stand and gass all day when you’re deliverin’ milk. That won’t get us nowhere.”
“That old Biddy Bascom, she’s a sight!” growled Orvie.
On the road west from Cloverleaf Corners the Ford got stuck in a chug hole.
“Get out,” ordered Bert, “and see if you can find any fence rails.”
Orvie started up the road. The fences were all wire fences, but maybe Jess Woods would have some rails. He headed for the Woods farm.
A car came along and pulled up behind Bert’s Ford. Two girls jumped out and came running along the road. Orvie waited till they caught up. They were Edna Belle and Nellie Jo Murray. They looked fatter than ever and wore big galoshes to keep off the mud. They looked scared and were breathless from running.
“What you runnin’ so fast for?” demanded Orvie.
“Hooky Blair’s comin’ after us
,” cried Edna Belle.
“He’ll hook us with his hook,” added Nellie Jo.
“I don’t see him,” said Orvie, looking back to the two cars. “Where is he?”
“He got in a car and drove it up close behind us,” said Edna Belle.
“He followed us all the way till he turned off,” said Nellie Jo.
“If he turned off, you don’t need to be scared,” said Orvie. “Does your father drive you to school every day?”
“No—our brother Ben,” said Edna Belle. “That’s him in our car back of Bert.”
“He couldn’t get past Bert without rollin’ in the ditch,” said Nellie Jo.
Just then Jess Woods came out of his lane. “Cars havin’ trouble up there?” he called.
“Stuck in the mud,” said Orvie. “Got any fence rails?”
Seeing that Bert had the help of Ben Murray and Jess Woods, Orvie walked on to school. The Murray girls flew on ahead of him, still fearful. Orvie walked slowly, thinking how silly they were, wondering why the last bell did not ring.
The Prairie View schoolhouse sat on a rise of ground at the next four corners. When Orvie got there, he had two surprises. He saw a new oil well on the school ground, with a derrick going up by the windows. And he saw Miss Plumley, coming from the opposite direction across a low damp field, walking. She was late, and all the children ran to the corner to meet her.
Orvie stared at Miss Plumley, forgetting to say good morning.
“Did you stick too?” he asked.
“Yes, Orvie!” laughed Miss Plumley. “I left my car and took a short cut across the field. Then I had to wade the creek.”
She looked so funny all the children laughed, and she did not seem to mind. Her feet and legs were bare and white to her knees. In one hand she carried her shoes and stockings, and held up her long skirt. In the other she carried a big bunch of pink and white roses. She walked timidly, letting out squeals each time something sharp stuck her tender feet.
“Teacher’s going barefoot! Teacher’s going barefoot!” sing-songed the children.
“I’m late,” puffed Miss Plumley. “I had to stop to pick the little stickers out of first one foot, then the other.”
