Nathaniel Leveson visited our county, opened an office, and began to lay his pulpy white hands upon everything which directly or indirectly might produce petroleum.  In due season he invited Uncle Jap to dine with him at the Paloma Hotel, in San Lorenzo.  The old man, with the hayseed in his hair, and the stains of bitumen upon his gnarled hands, ate and drank of the best, seeing a glorified vision of his Lily crowned with diamonds at last.  The vision faded somewhat when Nathaniel began to talk dollars and cents.  Even to Uncle Jap, unversed in such high matters as finance, it seemed plain that Leveson & Company were to have the dollars, and that to him, the star-spangled epitome of Yankee grit and get-there were to be apportioned the cents.

“Lemme see,” he said, with the slow, puzzled intonation of the man who does not understand; “I own this yere oil——­”

“Subject to the mortgage, Mr. Panel, I believe?”

“That don’t amount to shucks,” said Uncle Jap.

“Quite so.  Forgive me for interrupting you.”

“I own this yere oil-field, lake I call it, and, bar the mortgage, it’s bin paid for with the sweat of my—­soul.”

He brought out the word with such startling emphasis, that Nathaniel nearly upset the glass of fine old cognac which he was raising to his lips.

“Yas, my soul,” continued Uncle Jap, meditatively.  “I risked everything I’d got.  Man,” he leant across the gaily decorated table, with its crystal, its pink shades, its pretty flowers, and compelled his host to meet his flaming eyes,—­“man, I risked my wife’s love and respect.  And,” he drew a deep breath, “by God, I was justified.  I got there.  If I hadn’t,” the fire died down in his mild blue eyes, and the thin body seemed to wither and shrink,—­“if I hadn’t struck it, it would hev killed her, the finest lady in the land, an’ me too.  It was nip an’ tuck with both of us.  And now,” his voice warmed into life again,—­“and now you offer me fifty thousand dollars.”

“I am anxious to treat you right, Mr. Panel.  Another glass of brandy?  No.  Between ourselves the market is getting weaker every day.  Fifty thousand profit, perhaps, may seem a small sum to you, but I cannot offer more.  You are at perfect liberty to refuse my cheque; others, perhaps——­”

Uncle Jap rose up grim and gaunt.

“I’ve ate dinner with you,” he murmured, “so I’ll say nothing more than ‘thank you’ and ‘good-bye.’”

“Good-bye, Mr. Panel.  At any time, if you have reason to change your mind, I shall be glad to talk business with you.”

Uncle Jap returned to his own hotel to pass a restless night.  Next day he sought a certain rich man who had a huge ranch in our county.  The rich man, let us call him Dives, had eaten Uncle Jap’s figs, and taken his advice, more than once, about cattle.

“Who’s a-buyin’ oil lakes?” demanded Uncle Jap.

“Nathaniel Leveson.”

“Who else?”