"But—but—" stammers the white-faced Kid, "the bottom fell out of Mexicali Oil—I saw it in the newspapers—"
"Some days ago, of course," beams the old man. "I—ah—we attended to that, and that's when I bought—with your heaven-sent hundred and fifty thousand! The money was brought to me to wager for you and, taking your advice, I stuck to my own game. The long-promised gusher was brought in this morning and when I ceased operations this afternoon I held certified checks to the tune of some four hundred and eighty thousand dollars and—well, have you seen this?"
He hauls a extry from his pocket, and on the front page in large type it says:
J. A. Halliday Comes Back!
Ex-Wizard of Wall Street
Wins Fortune in Oil.
Wild Scenes on Curb!
In a adjoining column is:
Roberts Stops Enright in Seventh.
"Well," says the Kid, kinda dazed, "all this is too much for me—I'm—I'm bewildered!" He grabs his father's hands and his eyes is very damp. "Dad," he says, "I—you make me feel—eh—futile! The old master, eh?" He straightens up and looks from one to the other of us. "You must excuse me," he apologizes, "I'm a bit used up. I've just come through
