Oil (filmed as There Will Be Blood) (4 page)

II

The house numbered 5746 Los Robles Boulevard belonged to Joe Groarty, night watchman for the Altmann Lumber Company of Beach City. Mrs. Groarty had "taken in" washing to help support her seven children; now that they were grown up and scattered, she kept rabbits and chickens. Joe usually left for his job at six p.m.; but on the third day after the "strike" he had got up the nerve to give up his job, and now he was on his front-porch, a mild, grey-haired old fellow, wearing a black suit, with celluloid collar and black tie, his costume for Sundays and holidays, weddings and funerals. Mrs. Groarty had had no clothing suitable for this present occasion, so she had been driven down-town in her husband's Ford, and had spent some of her oil expectations for an evening gown of yellow satin. Now she felt embarrassed because there was not enough of it, either at the top where her arms and bosom came out, or below, where her fat calves were encased in embroidered silk stockings, so thin as to seem almost nothing. It was what "they" were wearing, the saleswoman had assured her; and Mrs. Groarty was grimly set upon being one of "them." The house was in the conventional "bungalow style," and had been built by a wealthier family, in the days of the real estate boom. It had been offered at a sacrifice, and Mrs. Groarty had fastened upon it because of the wonderful living-room. They had put their savings into a cash payment, and were paying the balance thirty dollars a month. They had got a deed to the property, and were up to date on their payments, so they were safe. When you passed the threshold of the house, the first thing you saw was shine; the most marvelous gloss ever seen on woodwork—and to heighten the effect the painter had made it wavy, in imitation of the grain of oak; there must have been ten thousand lines, each one a separate wiggle of a brush. The fire-place was of many colored stones, highly polished and gleaming like jewels. In the back of the room, most striking feature of all, was a wooden staircase, with a balustrade, also shiny and wavy; this staircase went up, and made a turn, and there was a platform with a palm-tree in a pot. You would take it for granted that it was a staircase like all other staircases, intended to take you to the second story. You might go into the Groarty home a hundred times, and see it both day and night, before it would occur to you there was anything wrong; but suddenly—standing outside on some idle day— it would flash over you that the Groarty home had a flat roof over its entire extent, and at no part was there any second story. Then you would go inside, inspired by a new, malignant curiosity, and would study the staircase and landing, and realize that they didn't lead anywhere, their beauty was its own excuse for being. Mrs. Groarty stood by the centre-table of her living-room, awaiting the arrival of the expected company. There was a bowl of roses in a vase on this table, and immediately in front of it, conspicuous under the electric lamp, was a handsome volume bound in blue cloth and stamped with gold letters: "The Ladies' Guide: A Practical Handbook of Gentility." It was the only book in the Groarty home, and it had been there only two days; an intelligent clerk in the department-store, after selling the satin robe, had mentioned to the future "oil-queen" the existence of this bargain in the literature department. Mrs. Groarty had been studying the volume at spare moments, and now had it set out as an exhibit of culture. The first to arrive was the widow Murchey, who had only to come from the end of the block, where she lived in a little bungalow with her two children; she was frail, and timid of manner, and wore black wristbands. She went into raptures over Mrs. Groarty's costume, and congratulated her on her good fortune in being on the south slope of the hill, where one could wear fine dresses. Over on the north side, where the prevailing winds had blown the oil, you ruined your shoes every time you went out. Some people still did not dare to light their kitchen fires, for fear of an explosion. Then came the Walter Blacks, Mr. and Mrs. and their grown son, owners of the southwest corner lot; they were in real estate in the city. Mr. Black wore a checked suit, an expansive manner, and a benevolent protective gold animal as watch-fob on his ample front. Mrs. Black, also ample, had clothes at home as good as Mrs. Groarty's, but her manner said that she hadn't put them on to come out to any cabbage-patch. They were followed by Mr. Dumpery, the carpenter, who had a little cottage in back of the Groarty's, fronting on Eldorado Road, the other side of the block; Mr. Dumpery was a quiet little man, with shoulders bowed and hands knotted by a life-time of toil. He was not very good at figures, and was distressed by these sudden uncertainties which had invaded his life. Next came the Raithels, who had a candy-store in town, a very genteel young couple, anxious to please everybody, and much distressed because it had so far proven impossible; they were the owners of one of the "little lots." Then Mr. Hank, a lean and hatchet-faced man with an exasperating voice; he owned the next "little lot," and because he had been a gold miner, considered himself an authority on oil leases. After him came his enemy, Mr. Dibble, the lawyer, who represented the absent owner of the northwest corner, and had made trouble by insisting on many technicalities difficult for non-lawyers to understand; he had tried hard to separate the north half of the block, and was regarded as a traitor by those of the south half. Then came Mr. Golighty, one of the "medium lots." His occupation was not known, but he impressed everyone by his clothing and cultured manner; he was a reconciler, with a suave, rotund voice, and talked a great deal, the only trouble being that when he got through you were a little uncertain as to what he had said. The Bromleys arrived, an elderly couple of means, driving a big car. They brought with them the Lohlkers, two little Jewish tailors, whom ordinarily they would have talked with only in the tailor-shop; but with these allies they controlled four of the "medium lots," which was sufficient for a drilling site, and cutting right across the block, had enabled them to threaten the rest with a separate lease. Behind them came the Sivons, walking from their house on the northeast corner; they were pretentious people, who looked down on the rest of the neighborhood—and without any cause, for they drove a second-hand car, three years out of date. They were the people who had got this lease, and everyone was sure they were getting a big "rake-off" on the side; but there was no way to prove it, and nothing you could do about it, for the reason that all the others who had brought leasing propositions had been secretly promised a similar "rake-off." With them came Mr. Sahm, a plasterer, who lived in a temporary "garage-house" on the "little lot" adjoining the Sivons. His dwelling amounted to nothing, nevertheless he had been the one who had clamored most strenuously that the houses should be moved at the lessor's expense; he had even tried to put in a provision for compensation for the rows of beans and tomatoes he had planted on his lot. The others had sought to hoot him down, when to their dismay the silent Mr. Dumpery, the carpenter, arose, declaring that it seemed to him a quite sensible request; he had seven rows of corn, himself, and beans in full blossom, and he thought the contract should at least contain a provision that the first well should be drilled on some lot which was not planted, so as to give the gardeners time to reap the benefit of their labor.

III

It was seven-thirty, the hour set for the meeting; and everybody looked about, waiting for somebody else to begin. At last a stranger rose, a big six-footer with a slow drawl, introducing himself as Mr. F. T. Merriweather, attorney for Mr. and Mrs. Black, owners of the southwest corner; by his advice, these parties wished to request a slight change in the wording of the lease. "Changes in the lease?" It was the hatchet-faced Mr. Hank who leaped up. "I thought it was agreed we'd make no more changes?" "This is a very small matter, sir—" "But Mr. Ross is to be here in fifteen minutes, ready to sign up!" "This is a detail, which can be changed in five minutes." There was an ominous silence. "Well, what is your change?" "Merely this," said Mr. Merriweather; "it should be explicitly stated that in figuring the area for the apportioning of the royalty, due regard shall be paid to the provision of the law that oil-rights run to the centre of the street, and to the centre of the alley in the rear." "What's that?" Eyes and mouths went open, and there was a general murmur of amazement and dissent. "Where do you get that?" cried Mr. Hank. "I get it from the statutes of the State of California." "Well, you don't get it from this lease, and you don't get it from me!" There was a chorus of support: "I should think not! Whoever heard of such a thing? Ridiculous!" "I think I speak for the majority here," said old Mr. Bromley. "We had no such understanding; we assumed that the area of the lots to be taken was that given on the maps of the company." "Certainly, certainly!" cried Mrs. Groarty. "I think, Mrs. Groarty," replied Mr. Dibble, the lawyer, "there has been an unfortunate accident, owing to your unfamiliarity with the oil-laws of the State. The provisions of the statute are clear." "Oh, yes, of course!" snapped Mrs. Groarty. "We don't need to be told what you would say, seeing as you represent a corner lot, and the corner lots will get twice as much money!" "Not so bad as that, Mrs. Groarty. Don't forget that your own lot will run to the centre of Los Robles Boulevard, which is eighty feet wide." "Yes, but your lot will run to the centre of the side street also—" "Yes, Mrs. Groarty, but El Centro Avenue is only sixty feet wide." "What it means is just this, you make your lots ninety-five feet lots, instead of sixty-five feet lots, as we all thought when we give up and consented to let the big lots have a bigger share." "And you were going to let us sign that!" shouted Mr. Hank. "You were sitting still and working that swindle on us!" "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" boomed the voice of Mr. Golighty, the conciliator. "Let me git this straight," broke in Abe Lohlker, the tailor. "Eldorado Road ain't so wide as Los Robles Boulevard, so us fellers on the east half don't git so much money as the others." "That amounts to practically nothing," said Mr. Merriweather. "You can figure—" "Sure I can figger! But then, if it don't amount to nothin', what you comin' here bustin' up our lease about it for?" "I can tell you this right now!" cried Mr. Hank. "You'll never get me to sign no such agreement." "Nor me," said Miss Snypp, the trained nurse, a decided young lady with spectacles. "I think us little lots have put up with our share of imposition." "What I say," added Mr. Hank, "let's go back to the original agreement, the only sensible one, share and share alike, all lots equal, same as we vote." "Let me point out something, Mr. Hank," said Mr. Dribble, with much dignity. "Am I correct in the impression that you own one of the little lots adjoining the alley?" "Yes, I do." "Well, then, have you figured that the law entitles you to an extra fifteen feet all along that alley? That puts you somewhat ahead of the medium lots." Mr. Hank's lantern jaw dropped down. "Oh!" he said. And Mrs. Groarty burst into laughter. "Oh! Oh! That changes it, of course! It's us medium lots that are the suckers now—us that make up half the lease!" "And us little lots that ain't on the alley!" cried Mrs. Keith, the wife of a baseball player. "What about my husband and I?" "It looks to me we're clean busted up," said Mr. Sahm, the plasterer. "We don't know who we belong with no more." Like most of the men in the room, he had got out a pencil and paper, and was trying to figure this new arrangement; and the more he figured, the more complications he discovered.

IV

It had been the Walter Browns who had started the idea of a "community agreement" for this block. Two or three lots were enough for a well, but for such a lease you could only get some small concern, and like as not you would fall into the hands of a speculator, and be bartered about, perhaps exploited by a "syndicate" and sold in "units," or tied up in a broken contract, and have to sit by and watch while other people drained the oil from under your land. No, the thing to do was to get a whole block together; then you had enough for half a dozen wells, and could deal with one of the big companies, and you would get quick drilling, and more important yet, you would be sure of your royalties when they were earned. So, after much labor, and pulling and hauling, and threatening and cajoling, and bargaining and intriguing, the owners of the twenty-four lots had met at the Groarty home, and had signed their names, both husbands and wives, to a "community agreement," to the effect that none of them would lease apart from the others. This document had been duly recorded in the county archives; and now day by day they were realizing what they had done to themselves. They had agreed to agree; and from that time on, they had never been able to agree to anything! They met at seven-thirty every evening, and wrangled until midnight or later; they went home exhausted, and could not sleep; they neglected their business and their house-keeping and the watering of their lawns—what was the use of working like a slave when you were going to be rich? They held minority meetings, and formed fractional groups, and made pledges which they broke, more or less secretly, before the sun had set. Their frail human nature was subjected to a strain greater than it was made for; the fires of greed had been lighted in their hearts, and fanned to a white heat that melted every principle and every law. The "lease-hounds" were on their trail, besieging their homes, ringing the telephone, following them in automobiles. But each new proposition, instead of satisfaction, brought worry, suspicion and hate. Whoever proposed it, must be trying to cheat the rest; whoever defended it, must have entered into league with him. No one of them but knew the possibilities of treasons and stratagems; even the mildest of them—poor, inoffensive Mr. Dumpery, the carpenter, who, dragging his steps home from the trolley, with fingers sore and back aching from the driving of several thousand shingle-nails on a roof, was met by a man driving a palatial limousine. "Step in, Mr. Dumpery," said the man. "This is a fine car, don't you think? How would you like to have me get out and leave you in it? I'll be very glad to do that if you'll persuade your group to sign up with the Couch Syndicate." "Oh, no," said Mr. Dumpery, "I couldn't do that, I promised Miss Snypp I'd stick by the Owens plan." "Well, you can forget that," said the other. "I've just had a talk with Miss Snypp, and she is willing to take an automobile." They had got into a condition of perpetual hysteria, when suddenly hope broke upon them, like the sun out of storm-clouds; Mr. and Mrs. Sivon brought a proposition from a man named Skutt, who represented J. Arnold Ross, and made them the best offer they had yet had—one thousand dollars cash bonus for each lot, one-fourth royalty, and an agreement to "spud in" the first well within thirty days, under penalty of another thousand dollars per lot, this forfeit to be posted in the bank. All of them knew about J. Arnold Ross; the local papers had had articles telling how another "big operator" was entering the new field. The papers printed his picture, and a sketch of his life— a typical American, risen from the ranks, glorifying once more this great land of opportunity. Mr. Sahm, the plasterer, and Mr. Dumpery, the carpenter, and Mr. Hank, the miner, and Mr. Groarty, the night watchman, and Mr. Raithel, the candy-store keeper, and Messrs. Lohlker and Lohlker, ladies' and gents' tailors, felt a glow of the heart as they read these stories. Their chance had come now, it was the land of opportunity for them! There was another agonizing wrangle, as a result of which the big and medium lots decided to drop their differences; they voted against the little lots, and drew up a lease on the basis of each lot receiving a share of royalty proportioned to its area. They notified Mr. Skutt that they were ready, and Mr. Skutt arranged for the great Mr. Ross to meet them at a quarter to eight the following evening and sign the papers. And now, here they were, exactly on the minute appointed—and they were in another mess! Here were four of the "little lots," set unexpectedly above the "medium lots"; as a result of which, four "big lots" and four "big little lots" were in favor of the lease, and four "little little lots" and twelve "medium lots" were against it! Here was Miss Snypp, her face brick red with wrath, shaking her finger at Mr. Hank. "Let me tell you, you'll never get me to put my signature on that paper—never in this world!" And here was Mr. Hank, shouting back: "Let me tell you, the law will make you sign it, if the majority votes for it!" And here was Mrs. Groarty, forgetting all about the Practical Handbook of Gentility, glaring at Mr. Hank and clenching her hands as if she had him by the throat: "And you the feller that was yellin' for the rights of the little lots! You was for sharin' and sharin' alike—you snake in the grass!" Such was the state to which they had come, when suddenly every voice was stilled, clenched hands were loosened, and angry looks died away. A knock upon the door, a sharp, commanding knock; and to every person in the room came the identical thought: J. Arnold Ross!