was pumped.

"I'd like to see a ship that carries oil," remarked Betty, as they
came out of the gasolene plant and made their way to the automobile.

One of the men had happened to mention in her hearing that an
unusually large shipment of oil had been ordered to be sent to Egypt.

"Well, that's one request we can't fill," acknowledged her uncle
regretfully. "You're inland for sure, Betty, and the good old ocean
is many miles from Oklahoma. However, some day I hope you'll see an
oil tanker. The whole story of oil, from production to consumption,
is a fascinating one, and not the least wonderful is the part that
deals with the marketing side of it. We have salesmen in South
America, China, Egypt, and practically every large country. Who knows
but Bob will one day be our representative in the Orient?"

They had dinner, a merry noisy meal, with the men at the bunk house.
It was a novelty Bob and Betty thoroughly enjoyed and they found the
men, mostly clerical workers, a few bosses and Dave Thorne, the well
foreman, a friendly, clever crowd who were to a man keenly interested
in the work at the fields. They talked shop incessantly, and both
Betty and Bob gained much accurate information of positive value.

After dinner Mr. Gordon drove them back to the Watterby farm,
promising another trip soon. He had to go back immediately, and slept
at the fields that night. Thereafter he came and went as he could,
sometimes being absent for two or three days at a time. The horse he
had ordered for Betty arrived, and proved to be all that was said for
it. She was a wiry little animal, and Betty christened her "Clover."
For Bob, Mr. Gordon succeeded in capturing a big, rawboned white
horse with a gift of astonishing speed. Riding horses were at a
premium, for distances between wells were something to be reckoned
with, and those who did not own a car had to depend on horses. Bob
even saw one enthusiastic prospector mounted on a donkey.

As soon as they were used to their mounts, Betty and Bob began to go
off for long rides, always remembering Mr. Gordon's injunction to
stay away from the town.

"How tanned you are, Betty!" Bob said one day, as they were letting
their horses walk after a brisk gallop. "I declare, you're almost as
brown as Ki. I like you that way, though," he added hastily, as if he
feared she might think he was criticising. "And that red tie is
awfully pretty."

"You look like an Indian yourself," said Betty shyly