held
our breaths while she rustled in. Say, who'd have thought that a few
clothes could make such a difference? For instead of the big sloppy
young female who used to slouch, gigglin' around the basement who
should breeze in but a zippy young lady, a bit heavy about the shoulders
maybe for that flimsy style of costume, but more or less stunning, for
all that. Rowena had bloomed out. In fact, she had the lilies of the
field lookin' like crepe paper imitations.

And we'd no sooner caught our breath after inspectin' her than Horatio
makes an entrance, and we behold the youngster whose usual costume was
an old gray sweater and a pair of baggy pants now sportin' a suit of
young hick raiment that any shimmy hound on Times Square would have been
glad to own. Slit pockets? Oh my, yes; and a soft collar that matched
his lilac striped shirt, and cuff links and socks that toned in with
both, and a Chow dog on a leather leash.

Then Pa Gummidge, shaved and slicked up as to face and hair, his bowlegs
in a pair of striped weddin' trousers and the rest of him draped in a
frock coat and a fancy vest, with gold eyeglasses hung on him by a black
ribbon. He's puffin' away at a Cassadora cigar that must have measured
seven inches over-all when it left the box. In fact, the Gummidges are
displayin' all the usual marks of wealth and refinement.

"But tell me," gasps Vee, "what on earth has happened? How did--did you
get it?"

"Oil," says Pa Gummidge.

Vee looks blank. "I--I don't understand," says she.

"Lemme guess," says I. "You mean you struck a gusher on the sheep
ranch?"

"I didn't," says Gummidge. "Them experts I leased the land to did,
though. Six hundred barrels per, and still spoutin' strong. They pay me
a royalty on every barrel, too."

"Oh!" says I. "Then you and Brother Jim--"

"Poor Jim!" says Henry. "Too bad he couldn't have hung on long enough to
enjoy some of it. Enough for both. Lord, yes! Just my luck to lose him.
Only brother I ever had. But he's missin' a lot of trouble, at that.
Having to eat with your coat on, for one thing. And this grapefruit for
breakfast nonsense. I'm always squirtin' myself in the eye."

"Isn't that just like Henry?" chuckles Ma Gummidge. "Why, he grumbles
because the oil people send him checks so often and he has to mail 'em
to his bank. But his rheumatism's lots better and we're all havin' the
best time. My, it--it's 'most like being in Heaven."

She meant it, too, every word. There