OIL TO WIN James O. Henry
"It's a stinking place, Pa, and I don't like it." Nineteen-year-old Lyman Stew art had said his piece. He could see hurt amazement in his father's eyes. The lad swallowed hard. There seemed to be a lump in his throat. The elder Stewart did not say a word. Just looked. In a way that hurt. Lyman shifted his weight from foot to foot. Then a torrent of words fairly poured from his lips. "Pa, you know I want to do what is right. I respect you, sir. But I
just can't go on working for you. A tannery's an interesting place for a boy of 11. I felt big learn ing my pa's trade, even if the other kids joked and said I smelled like a stack of spoiled cowhides. But I am a man now." He shifted his weight again and swallowed hard. "I got $125 saved up. I can get a Va interest in a lease on the John Benninghoff farm. I calculate there is oil under those rolling knolls." Oil. Now Lyman's father knew what had gotten into his son. The Page 5
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