Solution Manual for Introductory Statistics, 10th Edition Neil A. Weiss
Solution Manual for Introductory Statistics, 10th Edition Neil A. Weiss
Solution Manual for Introductory Statistics, 10th Edition Neil A. Weiss
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Solution Manual for Introductory Statistics, 10th Edition Neil A. Weiss
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7. Contents
Chapter 1 The Nature of Statistics 1
Chapter 2 Organizing Data 21
Chapter 3 Descriptive Measures 127
Chapter 4 Probability Concepts 215
Chapter 5 Discrete Random Variables 279
Chapter 6 The Normal Distribution 335
Chapter 7 The Sampling Distribution of the
Sample Mean 401
Chapter 8 Confidence Intervals for One
Population Mean 461
Chapter 9 Hypothesis Tests for One
Population Mean 513
Chapter 10 Inferences for Two Population Means 591
Chapter 11 Inferences for Population
Standard Deviations 681
Chapter 12 Inferences for Population Proportions 715
Chapter 13 Chi-Square Procedures 749
Chapter 14 Descriptive Methods in Regression
and Correlation 801
Chapter 15 Inferential Methods in Regression
and Correlation 883
Chapter 16 Anaylsis of Variance (ANOVA) 953
21. so to speak.” In high good humor, he shook a pudgy fist at my uncle,
saying, “Hand mind you, if I am h ignored I shall be disappointed.”
The one mistake of the whole evening—if one can be sure there was a
mistake—was when the hunters, after they had “impressed” the Englishmen
with the danger of the panther to their dogs, turned the dogs loose on the
trail of the pet coon they had brought into the woods at the right movement
to make a “hot trail.”
It had taken four yoke of oxen to plant the log—and my Aunt Hulda gave
the men a spirited tongue-lashing for making use of one of her hens to
bloody the trail.
Now, imagine if you can, my uncle’s surprise when the next time he went
over to his cherished timber lot he discovered that someone had robbed him
of valuable post and rail trees. Not being present at the time, I have no way
of knowing what his immediate reactions were. But had it been my Dad
instead of my uncle, who never swore, I’m darned sure I could name
more’n half of the irreverent words he would have employed in taking the
epidermis off that stocky little Englishman.
SHORT CHANGED
Not Hitherto Published — 1950
By John T. Bristow
You can never tell by the caption of one of my stories what all is going to be
in it—the caption might well have been something else—but the line that
inspired the heading is sure to be apparent to the careful reader; if he, or
she, will look for it.
The oil strike on the Oreon Strahm land one mile south of the Sabetha
hospital, in August, 1950, and the two producers previously brought in on
the Mamie Strahm land three and one-half miles to the southwest, refreshes
22. my memory of an earlier try for oil in Nemaha County—and some of my
own experiences in this greatest of all “get-rich-quick” opportunities.
In 1904 Dr. Joseph Haigh and Dr. A. P. Lapham secured a block of oil
leases around Wetmore, and contracted with a driller, W. H. Hardenburg, of
Oklahoma, to drill a well to the depth of 2,000 feet—or to the Mississippi
lime—for $5,000. The site was on land owned by Dr. J. W. Graham in the
west part of town; later owned by Mr. Mathews.
The drillers struck a little gas at 1700 feet, which spurted water over the 80-
foot derrick. This caused a great deal of excitement—but after “pulling” the
fire in the coal-burning power plant and quickly taking other precautionary
measures, the drillers said “there was nothing to it.”
Gas had previously been encountered in two water wells in the north part of
town—on the Cyrus Clinkenbeard property west of the school grounds,
now owned by the Thorn-burrow girls; and on the J. W. Luce property near
the cemetery, now owned by Gene Cromwell. The flow in the Luce well
was the stronger, agitating the water in a way to produce a bubbling sound.
It created a lot of excitement. But the State Geologist said it was helium
gas, which, rather than burn, would extinguish fire.
In the oil test on the Graham lot, at about 1800 feet, a hard formation was
encountered, which the drillers pronounced the Mississippi lime—but State
Geologist Haworth said it was not. Then the drillers completed the contract
at 2,000 feet. Mr. Hardenburg had a drilling contract coming up in
Oklahoma, but he remained on the job here about a week longer, at $40 a
day—and the hole was put down to 2225 feet. It was planned to have Mr.
Hardenburg come back and drill the test deeper, but he got rich in his
“share-the-profits” contract in the Tulsa oil field—and retired to a home on
“easy street” (Morningside Drive) in Kansas City.
When Hart Eyman was getting up a block of oil leases here in 1934, I called
up Mr. Hardenburg, while in Kansas City, and told him of the activity out
here. He asked me to let him know when the first test was to be spudded in
here, saying he would drive out. He said he still had faith in this section and
that he would have been glad to have finished our test. I believe our people
23. failed to raise the necessary funds. The money for the original test was
raised by selling stock. And it was a clean promotion—but that is more than
I can say for some of the outside oil promotions in which our Wetmore
group dipped.
In view of the recent strikes in the Strahm field, with a 30-barrel producer
in the Hunton lime at around 2800 feet; and the Mamie Strahm number 2,
rated at 1440 barrels in the Viola lime at approximately 3600 feet; and the
Oreon Strahm test, with even greater potential production in the Hunton and
Viola and still another producing sand topping the granite at around 3900
feet, it looks as though we Wetmore “investors” might better have kept our
speculative eggs all in one basket, so to speak, contrary to high-powered
promotion advice—and completed the Haigh-Lapham oil test. And I still
believe we overlooked our best bet right here at home.
But then we had no data to enlighten us. The nearest and only drilling at
that time was ten miles south of us. It was not deep enough to prove or
disprove anything. In the heyday of his great financial flight—in the 1880’s
—Green Campbell drilled a test to the depth of 1,000 feet on the east edge
of Circleville. I believe the incentive was a reported seepage of oil in the
creek south of the town.
Then, some twenty years after the Wetmore try, a couple of promoters came
out of Kansas City, with a plan to rejuvenate interests in the Haigh-Lapham
test—and “feather their own nests.” Joe Searles’ drugstore in the east room
of what is now the First National Bank building, was the unofficial
headquarters for oil hungry “investors”—local and transient. With Joe and
the two promoters, I went over to the Matthews lot, now owned by Bert
Gilbert. Mr. Hardenburg had left the top 100 feet of casing in the well to
prevent cave-ins against the time when he might return to finish the well.
Measurements to the exhaustion of the string available showed the well
open for fifteen hundred feet—and likely all the way down to the bottom.
Excitement began to mount again.
Dr. A. P. Lapham presided over a packed gathering in the opera house—and
appointed a committee of five to confer with the promoters. The committee
24. met in the Thorn-burrow bank. The promoters came up with a contract
whereby they would undertake to raise the funds for the completion of the
well, against numerous and assorted requirements by “the people” of
Wetmore.
I was offered the trusteeship—but I declined to accept it. I think the reason
the committee offered it to me was because I had been the trustee—with no
part in the promotion—of a block of eight hundred acres of oil leases in Elk
and Chautauqua Counties, purchased from Charley Cortner, salesman, of
Iola, and Dr. C. E. Shaffer, vendor, of Moline, by our Wetmore group, at
$10 an acre, with further obligation of $1.00 per acre yearly rentals, for five
years, which had been carried through to a successful termination, with no
gain to the “investors” and a loss to me of only $85—aside from my $250
first come-in and my part of the rentals, $25 a year, through payments of
rentals in general, as trustee, in excess of collections. I had to collect four
hundred dollars twice a year from fifty-three people—and I didn’t quite
make it. I therefore regarded the trusteeship now offered me as not a
desirable recognition.
To keep the record straight, I shall now give with a little more
enlightenment. I actually had a little velvet in the Shaffer oil deal—
leastwise it looked like velvet at the time. Not for promotional influence—
but for services rendered, and to be rendered.
I went with Charley Cortner, the salesman, and three other Wetmore men to
the Moline oil field—paid my own expenses, even to transportation equal to
railroad fare, and therefore was beholden to no one. The Moline acreage
adjoined a block of leases on which the discovery well, a small producer,
had recently been brought in. There was, however, big production—and
growing bigger every day—at Eldorado, where we stopped on the way
down to get our appetites (for oil speculation) whetted. I wanted to go in
with them, of course.
You know, should you pass up an opportunity to go in with the home folks
on something that was to pan out big, you would always feel that God had
given you less sense than He had given your more fortunate neighbors.
And, should you strive to live down the mistake, there would always be
25. lucky ones to remind you of your dumbness. The hope of oil-money was in
my system. Had been hankering to get in with the home folks on something
good for a long time.
When reminiscing for entertainment, as well as for record of historic fact,
with no particular theme to exploit, you will, doubtless, agree that it is
permissible—nay, oft-times necessary, to break all the rules laid down by
learned teachers; such as to never let one incident call up another. And, if
you don’t agree—you are going to get it now, anyway.
Aside from the matter in hand, I may say that only a short time before this, I
had been denied the chance to go with a Wetmore group on an inspection
trip to another oil field in southern Kansas—because I had not as yet signed
up, as they had, for an interest in the lease. Well, the energetic young
salesman, after securing pledges enough here to put him in the clear, went
ahead of the boys to the headquarters and bought the lease, at a discount, on
partial payment, using his own money, which, had all gone well, should
have netted him more than the promised commission. He intended, of
course, to deliver the lease to the group up here at the contract price, or
rather the pledged commitments, with only a few amounts yet to be
peddled, or held in his own name, at his discretion. But the Wetmore group
—the boys who had said that to let me go with them on the inspection trip
without first making a commitment, would be unfair to those who had
signed up—turned down the deal, cold. Then, after returning home, the
group heard rumors of lawsuits—and counter suits. The lease vendor was
demanding payment in full, and the poor boy-salesman could not raise the
money.
Charley Cortner, the salesman earlier mentioned in this writing, had been
here for five or six months selling life insurance. He was a whole-souled,
persuasive, sort of man who had made many friends here. Cortner and Dr. J.
R. Purdum, in whose car the trip to Moline had been made, went out among
the people and in almost no time secured pledges for nearly enough money
to take over the Shaffer leases. They were selling interests in $125 “units.”
But, at the finish, to accommodate all the eager applicants, some
subscriptions were taken for as little as $50 and $25—sub-divisions of a
unit.
26. When they came to me—at the corn-house, where I had been sorting out
seed corn—I surprised them (and maybe shocked them, too) by declining to
subscribe. Not that I didn’t want to get in on the big prospect—but because,
as I believe, it was an improper if not a dangerous way to form a syndicate.
Somewhere I had acquired the notion that if fifty people chipped in and
bought a thing that it would take fifty people to sell it. But I didn’t tell them
this until after they had “flared up” and had their say. They started to quit
me, in disgust—but the Doctor, who was regarded among my best friends,
thinking to erase some of the unkind comment, said, “Well, John, when you
get through sorting your sour corn, come and see us—we’ll save some units
for you.” My corn was not “sour” corn. It was well matured, and making an
average of eighty bushels, with some acres on grubbed ground making 125
bushels.
Now, for a little laughable reaction within a none too laughable story. The
Farmers Union elevator manager, a farmer not so long out of the corn rows,
refused to buy my culled corn, said it would be unfair to his company to
permit me to take out the best ears. After I had sent several loads to the
Netawaka elevator, as it accumulated in the house, after taking out only
about ten per cent, the Farmers Union manager came over to the corn
house, looked at the culled corn we were loading out at the moment, saying
he guessed maybe he had made a mistake in refusing to buy the culled corn.
The culled corn was far better than the general run of corn brought to
market that year. It was an improved strain of Boone County White, which
would shell out equal to Reid’s Yellow Dent.
While still at the corn-house that day of the Purdum-Cortner call, Charley
had an inspiration. He said, “Why couldn’t you write something for us like
you think we ought to have?” I said, “I can try—but it will have to be
approved by an attorney before you can use it. I don’t want to cook up
something that might get our people in trouble.”
But did I—or did I not?
Charley said, “Can you get at it right away?” So the “sour” corn sorting was
postponed until another day—and I went to my home at 11:15. My
typewriter and writing desk were in an alcove up stairs. I had hardly gotten
27. the corn-dust and the insult to my purebred seed corn, which had been
engendered within the hour at the seed house out of my system when my
wife came to the stair door and said dinner was ready. I had no time for
dinner. The necessary words had not come to me readily. Charley came at
12:30, sat close to me, in a more pleasant mood with occasional verbal
expression indicating the reason for the improvement. But he was careful to
hold back the main reason. His presence didn’t help in furthering the
writing. However, we got away at the appointed time—one o’clock. No
dinner.
Fred Woodburn, the corporation-wise member of Wood-burn & Woodburn,
lawyers, Holton, Kansas, approved my draft, as written, with one exception.
I had made provision for transfer of units. Fred said it would break the
partnership. And, may I say, before I forget it, that I was censured for being
so careless as to omit making provision for transfers—and this, too, by an
individual who, as you will hereinafter see recorded, found fault with my
correct line of reasoning in another instance—correct as in reference to the
one incident, understand.
I’m not trying to “hand” myself a bouquet. The agreement cooked up by me
was neither “air tight” nor “fool proof.” The Trustee had not a chance. The
error was that I did not require the subscribers to include in their checks a
sufficiency to take care of their rentals for the full life of the leases. True,
there was the chance that rental payments might be legitimately
discontinued before the expiration of the lease, as in case of production
terminating the payments, or disposition of the lease. But it would have
been a lot simpler and safer too for the Trustee to return the unearned
portion of the lease money.
Charley Cortner paid the Woodburns for writing a new draft of the
agreement—and asked me, on the road home, for my charge. I told him,
“No charge.” He thanked me kindly. He felt good of course—but I could
see he had not yet got all he needed to allay a worry, the thing that had hit
them so hard at the corn-house.
Unauthorized, and unknown to me, in soliciting subscriptions, it seems,
they had carried the impression, if not the promise, that I would be the
28. Trustee—possibly demanded by some of the prospects. After miles of
silence on the road, Charley said, “You know, I feel so good about this that
I’m going to give you one unit; you can have it in cash, or in stock in the
syndicate.” From the ultra pleased expression on his face when I said I
would take it in stock, I’m sure he had been holding his breath awaiting my
decision.
True, I had not as yet agreed to accept the Trusteeship—in fact, I knew
nothing about their plans—but I was now as good as in, and they could, at
least, make a plausible showing at the called meeting in the City Hall the
following night, when the vendor would appear in person to deliver the
leases. Charley’s gift to me was acceptable grapes—equal to $4.50 a line, or
45 cents a word for the writing. I really wanted to get in, and would have
subscribed for an interest, anyway—now that apparently a safe and
workable organization would be formed.
Well, Doctor Shaffer spent much of his time here in my home. He was
agreeably pleased over Charley Cortner’s work, with my assistance in
preparing the agreement—and said so in no unmistakable terms. He had a
pleasant word for my wife, too.
In an aside, I will say, that while in Moline on that inspection trip, I was
troubled with a slight attack of appendicitis—which had been chronic with
me for twenty years, and still is—and had gotten temporary relief from the
Doctor. Dr. Shaffer now said that should I ever decide to have an operation,
for me to come down to Moline, and bring my wife along, that she could
stay in the hospital—all free of charge. This was by far the best offer I had
ever had.
First, I might say Dr. Sam Murbock, our old reliable, had said he could not
tell me what his charge would be until he got into me. I told him that he
would never get into me, or my pocket, without first naming his price.
Also, when a guest at the Stratford hotel in Kansas City, Dr. Pickerel, of the
Stratford, went with me to the University Hospital early one morning. He
said he would sit awhile in the lobby and he would spot the surgeons as
they came in. I passed three of them, trying to get my nerves settled.
29. The fourth one was more in general appearance to my idea of what a good
surgeon should look like. He was called—and we went up stairs to a room.
On examination, Dr. Jabes Jackson, Kansas City’s top-notch surgeon, said I
was just right for the operation. I asked him what would be his charge? He
said, “One thousand dollars!” I told him that I would have to be a lot sicker
before I would think of giving up a thousand dollars. Then, Dr. Pickerel
said, “He doesn’t come under that class, doctor.” Dr. Jabes then said, “Three
hundred—that’s the lowest.”
Again, while at the Byram hotel in Atchison I had a severe attack in the
night—and believed that the time had come when I should have the old
appendix taken out. I called for Atchison’s foremost surgeon. He was in
Kansas City, but would be back at one o’clock. I went up to the Atchison
hospital in the forenoon, asked for a little “home” treatment. In bed, the
nurse felt my “tummy,” shook her head, and said, “You will have to wait for
your doctor.” The doctor said I could have the caster oil and an enema—but
he told the nurse I was to have no breakfast. In the morning, I was feeling
pretty good and was about out of the notion of having the operation.
However, I asked the doctor what would be his charge? He said, “You are
most too weak to stand it now. Come back in a week—we’ll talk it over
then.” One week later, the doctor said, “Owing to your long residence in the
state, and your standing in the community, I’ll do it for five hundred
dollars.” I recalled that our old Nemaha County reliable had done the job
for one of my friends for a very reasonable fee, and also remembered that
he had charged others less reasonable. I said, “If and when the time comes,
I’ll just give you $150.” He said, “I’ll do it—but if you ever tell anybody,
I’ll kick your butt all over town.” You may know that we were on quite
intimate terms, having on earlier occasions met at Atchison’s friendly club
—or he wouldn’t have dared to talk to me like that.
Back in my home again, after enthusiastically discussing the likely prospect
of the new oil field. Doctor Shaffer went out on the street to mingle with his
boys, and the prospects who were now coming in from as far away as
Holton, Circleville, Soldier, Corning, Goff, Netawaka, Whiting, Sabetha,
and intervening farms—including my long-time friend Tommy Evans,
whose farm north of Capioma had the reputation of being the best kept and
30. most productive in the neighborhood—saying he (the doctor) would be
back soon. My wife said, “It looked like your promoter friends have all
ready unintentionally cut you in on the big melon should you be mindful to
follow up the lead—and wish to be bothered with the Trusteeship.” She
laughed, “If you don’t make that Doctor Shaffer cut you in for a generous
slice you are not as smart as I think you are.”
Well, maybe I needed this tip—and maybe I didn’t.
Doctor Shaffer came back, and without more preliminaries, proposed to cut
me in for two units ($250) if I would prepare him two copies in blank, of
the agreement I had cooked up for the home syndicate, and, incidentally,
permit Cortner and Purdum to make good on their promise to the
subscribers that I would be the Trustee. He said they were expecting it, and
desired to have my acceptance before going into the meeting. Thus, I
wouldn’t rightly know to whom I was indebted for the generous slice of the
melon.
Or was it a melon?
I suspect it was as Myrtle had said, unintentionally cooked up by the two
solicitors—and that, in its final phase, it was a joint settlement, with the
solicitors having to kick back a portion of their rake-off. Anyway, it was
more unsolicited grapes for me—twice over the $4.50 a line, or 45 cents a
word for the original draft. I used a carbon and made the two new copies at
once, while Doctor Shaffer waited. He had another sale on with a Missouri
group.
Fifty-three subscribers crowded into the City Hall, and all signed the
agreement, and each set down the amount of his subscription opposite his
name—and all wrote checks. At the finish I had fifty-three checks totaling
$8,000—my own check for $250, and Doctor Shaffer’s check for $1,000,
included. Doctor Shaffer would reimburse me for this $250 and also pay me
the $125 promised by Charley Cortner. I was instructed to send payment for
the lease in two $4,000 bank drafts. I had no intention of paying out $8,000
until those checks had time to be cleared. In the meantime our attorney had
31. called for complete abstracts to the acreage instead of the certificates of title
supplied by the vendor—delaying settlement for several weeks.
But the eight thousand dollar payment was made, and I received the $375
velvet from Doctor Shaffer—I guess. For reasons of his own, unknown to
me, Dr. Shaffer had a Wichita man mail me his personal check for $375,
nothing more. I suspect one of those $4,000 drafts had been deposited in a
Wichita bank. The transaction was legitimate. I had nothing to cover up.
This payment to me had come off the salesman and the vendor, negotiated
subsequent to the pledges made by syndicate members—leaving their full
“investment” intact to work out its own salvation.
This is the God’s truth—and mine, too.
Now, kindly figure out for me, if you can, where anyone had been worsted
through my part in the transaction. Two “bright” young clerks in the bank
here—whom I shall not name—caught it at once. That mysterious $375
check had alerted them. They put their own erroneous construction on it—
and passed the word along. Then I caught “hail Columbia” from the
younguns’ superior (in point of banking tenure) who had “invested $125 in
his wife’s name—the idea being that a banker himself ought to have more
sense than to dabble in such matters. His “boys,” as he called them, meant
well, of course—and it didn’t take me too long to convince the banker that I
had taken no part in the promotion. But, what if I had? It would not have
been a crime. I want to say, however, that the banker did me the favor of
trying to correct the false impressions he had helped set afloat. Once in a
blue moon even the worst of us will meet such a manful man.
In this story I only aim to hit the high spots—not, at any time, deviating
from the truth. It was not all easy sailing for the Trustee. In a case of this
kind, the conscientious person representing his friends, does not wish to let
them down because of failure to collect rentals in full. With syndicate
members widely scattered, the Trustee must make his own decisions—and
quick. He can put up the delinquent amount himself, or he can forfeit the
lease—if he does not wish to raise the ire of his friends who have paid.
32. Our syndicate was in reality an unfinanced holding partnership—barred
from creating indebtedness, euphoniously christened “The Elkmore Oil and
Gas Syndicate.” Here, I must give the wife credit—if, in the long run it
really merited credit—for suggesting this expressive name, which
embraces, in split infinitives, the location of the lease holdings (Elk County)
and the home (Wetmore) of the “investors.” It pleased Dr. Shaffer—no end.
I think it got Myrtle included in that proposed free entertainment at his
hospital in Moline.
Like Doctor Purdum’s good natured crack at my purebred seed corn, those
altruistically donated helpings of “grapes” showered on me by Cortner and
Shaffer, had begun to “sour”—and, I may say, that they deteriorated until
less than nothing was left of the windfall. It posed a perplexing dilemma.
As there was little chance of getting action before the expiration of the
leases, aggravated by draggy collections of rentals, a feeler was mailed to
all subscribers, in ample time before the fifth year’s payments were due.
More than half of them favored dropping the leases, and sent me their
written authorization. Nearly half of the interests remained expressionless.
The four leases were canceled. The majority of the interests wished it so.
But, it was the delinquents who hollered most, even censured me for giving
up the lease—when some of the acreage came into production several years
later. It seemed not to have occurred to them that wo would have lost out,
anyway.
But, in the Moline field we got some experience which should have taught
us a lesson, that a bird in hand is worth a whole flock in the bush—but it
didn’t. We could have sold our leases at a nice profit.
An oil gusher was brought in on a large tract of pasture land one mile away
from our holdings. Dr. Shaffer wired me to come down at once. He drove
me out to the well. There was a terrific jam—at the well, on the road, in
Moline. Crowds of people were at the well ahead of us that morning—Art
Hough, a former Wetmore boy, and his oil-rich partner, from Independence,
among them. Excitement was running high. One man was killed in his
overturned car while rushing out from town. And I, myself, spent the night
in a Moline hospital. This fact, however, does not necessarily pertain to the
33. gusher—except to show that there was genuine good-feeling all round. I
was the guest of Dr. Shaffer and his wife, who were the only other
occupants of his new hospital, not yet ready for public patronage. Dr.
Shaffer owned a one-eighth interest in our leases.
If you have never seen an oil-gusher, you don’t know what a thrilling sight
it is—especially, if you own nearby leases. Oil spurted in gusts at regular
intervals high into the air, spread out in all directions and arched down over
the four case-setters, stripped to the waist, encasing them in a film of oil so
heavy as to exclude them from view, at times. Art Hough and his partner,
who owned some producing wells in the shallow field near Independence,
wanted to buy our leases—but who would want to sell in the midst of all
that excitement? And, anyway, I was not in a position to deal with them on
the spot, as there were fifty-three signers in the group to an agreement
which provided for fifty-one per cent of the interests to say when to sell. We
did, however, later, arrange to sell part of the leases—carrying a provision
for drilling—and the papers were sent to the Moline bank; but the
prospective buyer was unable to come through with the money.
The gusher was on land owned, or controlled, by a Moline banker, and
another man. I heard one of the partners say, not once but many times,
always the same sing-song word for word, “I just told the Lord that since
He had been so good to me, I shall never desecrate His holy name.” If I
may express myself, unbiasedly, I would say the Lord played no favorites in
the Moline field; that I think He had nothing to do with the man’s good
luck, except, possibly, in a general way of being the creator of all things—
else why would He have destroyed the gusher with salt-water, and got the
owners the threat of a robust lawsuit to boot—for polluting a God-given
stream of fresh water?
In the matter of a fresh try to reopen the Wetmore oil test, I protested the
contract offered by the two Kansas City promoters, maintaining that we had
no valid authority to sign anything in the name of “the people” and that
liability would fall on the individual signers. One of the committeemen who
had been in various lines of business in Wetmore, and had finally settled
himself in a real estate office, said, “Why, John—there haint a day but what
I make contracts like that.” Questioning the man’s competency in such
34. matters, I said, “I wouldn’t doubt it in the least—but it will take still more
plausible argument to induce me to sign this one.”
The other members of the committee had caught the spirit of the meeting in
the opera house, and were anxious to see further development of our oil
prospect. They conferred the “favor” of the trusteeship on committeeman
Sam Thornburrow, cashier of the State Bank—and they all signed the
contract. Then the promoters went back to Kansas City to await the
hatching of the egg they had laid here. And in due time, Sam got notice
from a lawyer in Kansas City that he was about to be sued for breach of
contract. Then one morning as I was passing the bank Sam hailed me. He
said, “You know, those Kansas City fellows have sued me for $1,000—
what would you do about it?” Remembering how they had “ribbed” me for
refusing to sign with them, I said, “I’d pay it.” After he had turned this over
in his troubled mind a few times, I told him to pay no attention to it—that
the promoters were most likely trying to frighten him into a settlement; that
they would have to start their action in Kansas—and that I doubted very
much if they would risk doing this, as the contract would show them up for
the grafters they were.” The Kansas City promoters did not follow through
with their claim for damages.
It took only one more throw at the get-rich-quick oil game to convince me
that it just could not be accomplished by throwing in with the other fellow
on his home grounds, after he had carried the project to a point where any
day’s drilling might bring riches. But I’m still strong on the home-test—for
that would be furthering something for the good of all the home folks.
Our Wetmore group, with “investors” at Goff and Bancroft, contributed a
sum said to be $14,350 toward the completion of a well in a producing field
east of Enid, Oklahoma, on land owned by a Bancroft man. The
headquarters of the Company was in a fair sized city in southern Kansas,
with a department store owner as president, a physician and surgeon as
secretary—and a banker deeply interested in a covered-up sort of way. The
president and the land owner had departed with our money, supposedly to
complete the well—and then we would all most likely be “sitting pretty.”
But in about a week we got notice of a called meeting to vote $30,000
increase in capital stock. Also, we were advised of the bringing in of a gas
35. well of ten million feet potential on the lease adjoining the company ground
on the south, still farther away from the known production area on the
north, proving that we were still “sitting pretty.” Had this been reported
before we joined-up with our Southern Kansas financiers, I, for one, would
have kept my money. Sane people do not let the public in on a speculative
enterprise after its success is practically assured.
Our Wetmore “investors”, gave me proxies, and sent me down to
investigate. I first went with the land-owner to the Oklahoma field. We
found no activity at the well on his land, but the rig was still up. And the
drillers were working on the reported gas strike just across the road. They
told me that they had struck a small flow of gas—that it was not strong
enough to blow your hat off the casing.
I got back to the Kansas headquarters on Saturday about noon, and went at
once to the department store owned by the president. He introduced his
wife, who worked in the store, and his father-in-law, whom I shall call Mr.
Shapp—though this is not his real name. The president insisted that I take
dinner with him at his home. I sensed something was wrong—but I couldn’t
place it just yet. I learned later that Dr. Lapham had got wise to something
pertaining to the call for an increase of capital stock, and had written him a
critical letter. Dr. Lapham told me later that it was a “scorcher”—and I can
well believe it was. They were all rather upset. Of course the president, and
the secretary, and the banker, knew some things which I didn’t know—yet.
My dinner host was a bit “jumpy” because of that “scorcher” letter of Dr.
Lap-ham’s, and my appearance two days in advance of the called meeting.
But had he known what I had just learned at the dinner table, he could have
trusted me implicitly.
Some years prior to this I had sold, through advertisement in the Topeka
Capital, 500 shares of our mining stock to the fictitious Monroe P. Shapp, of
that address, and through him 200 shares in the name of his daughter, Ella J.
Shapp. Now, when the merchant called his wife “Ella” I put two and two
together—then I knew that I was among old friends. And I couldn’t find it
in my heart to get rough with them.
36. Not that I had any apologies to make for our mine promotion. We had used
their money, as promised, in the development of the mine, and at this time
were still putting our own money into it—and we had no intention of going
out and selling a block of stock to rub out the deficit. That would have been
illegal in Nevada. But the fact remained that we had not as yet been able to
make any returns to stockholders.
When I called on the secretary of the oil company, he said he could not give
me any time that afternoon, that he had to perform an operation at the
hospital at 4 o’clock. I said to him, in the presence of the president, “You
fellows seem to be scared about something—but you need not be. I give
you my word that I am not here to make trouble. All I want to know is what
chance you have to make good, and if it will be to our interests for me to
vote my proxies for the increase of capital stock at the meeting Monday.”
The secretary looked at the president, and the president looked at the
secretary—then they both looked at me. The president nodded—and the
secretary said, “Come along with me.”
It seems the directors had carried on with the drilling after company funds
were exhausted, incurring personal obligations, and stopped the drill when
approximating the required depth for a strike, with a large deficit—which,
with our contribution, was now reduced to something like $9,000. While in
the office of the physician-surgeon-secretary going over the books, the
banker—of German extraction, if not the whole thing—came in, and
nodding toward a back room, said as if in great distress, “Dokther—I’ve got
a stick in the eye.”
I decided that I ought not vote for the increase of stock—and, without leave,
came home on Sunday. One of our group, an ex-businessman, attended the
meeting on his own hook to get first hand knowledge of the situation. He
wired Joe Searles Monday afternoon, saying, “Bristow absent; could I vote
the proxies?” I told Joe to wire him, “Yes—if you have them.” I had just
turned them in to Joe. In a couple of days Searles got a long letter from him
—written by a stenographer in Kansas City—berating me for running out
on them, and boasting of the business-like interest he himself had taken in
the meeting, saying, “I stayed with them until we got in proxies enough the
next day to get the money—and I bought $250 worth more of the stock.”
37. He did not say—probably didn’t know—if his purchase was of the newly
voted stock, or from the old issue. I had a strong suspicion that we had all
ready bought and paid for a generous take of the newly voted stock—and
got short changed as well.
I had called on that “stick-in-the-eye” banker a short while before, and
obtained from him the log of a producing well recently brought in by Frank
Letson and associates in the Enid field—and this, I think, might have been
what had alerted the banker; or, maybe, the president had sent his partner
scurrying in to forestall an admission of their questionable finagling. I
wanted that log to compare with the log of “our” drilling, which I had
obtained from “our” president. Then, too, Frank Letson was a younger
brother of Ed and Ella Letson who were my schoolmates in Wetmore, when
their father, Bill Letson, owned a general store here; before going to
Netawaka to engage in like business. I had called at the Fleming and Letson
bank in Enid two days before, but did not get to see either of my old
acquaintances.
The Fleming bank, now an imposing brick structure having tall columns, on
the east side of the square, was started on the south side, opposite the land
office, in a small frame building in the new town after the opening of the
Cherokee strip, in 1893. I also had occasion to call at the old bank about six
months after the opening, to get a paper notarized.
Attorney Elwin Campfield, in the law office of John Curran, formerly of
Seneca, on the west side of the Enid square, filled out relinquishing papers
for me, without charge—we had been neighbors in the Bleisener building in
Wetmore—and suggested that I wait in the Curran office a few minutes
when he would have one of the office force notarize it for me, presumedly
also without charge—a small matter hardly worth waiting for. Up here the
fee for such service was then, and still is, twenty-five cents. I told Elwin I
would go over to the Fleming bank and get it notarized, that I wanted to pay
my respects to Ollie, anyway. 01 had grabbed off, at Netawaka, a red
headed girl (Ella Letson) whom I had thought pretty nice when we were
care-free kids running wild on the streets of Wetmore in the early days.
38. Well, 01 was sure glad to see me—and he would gladly remember me to
Ella. When he had returned the notarized paper to me, I said, “How much,
01?” He said, “Five dollars!” I shot him a wordless blank look. He laughed,
and said, “Oh, give me two-and-a-half.” There had been a time in that
frontier town when one could get most anything asked for services, but that
time was now over and passed—half-over, anyway.
That officious Wetmore man was in Dr. Lapham’s office when I reported
my findings. I told the group that I had spoken only for myself when I gave
those finaglers my word that I was not there to make trouble—that I had to
do this to get them to open up. I told the group that I had no desire to pursue
the matter further, but that they themselves were not barred; that any one of
them who might wish to, could notify the Blue Sky Board in Topeka—and
the Board would do the rest.
The man who had taken matters in his own hands and helped put over the
vote for the increase of capital stock without the formality of first finding
out what it was all about, popped up and said, “You had no right to tell them
that.” He insisted that I should make the complaint. And the surprising thing
is, he had some supporters. There were some hard losers in the group. I had
not made the investigation with the intention of filing a complaint—
wouldn’t have accepted the assignment had it carried any such provision. I
don’t like fussing.
Then, too, the president and the land owner had not solicited me to buy
stock, nor made promise to me that the fund would be used to complete the
well. Their contact had been with Dr. Lapham and other members of the
group. I went in with them solely because my neighbors had invited me to
join them, and because I didn’t want to stand idly by—and watch them
make a “killing.” However, on invitation, I went up to Dr. Lapham’s office
at the virtual close of a “pep” meeting, after the check-writing had begun. I
asked for information as to how the company was organized—particularly
as to whether or not the stock was non-assessable? The president and the
land-owner really didn’t know. But they went to Topeka the next day and
secured a transcript of the incorporation papers, which were acceptable.
And I was invited to go before the adjourned meeting the following
evening, and voice my approval. Then the check writing was resumed.
39. Also, my conscience told me, in a flash, that it would be a rather poor
spirited person who should wish to send his neighbor “up” for the mistake
of keeping bad company. It looked as if our old farmer-neighbor had been
caught in between two fires, and didn’t know which way to “jump”—or
worse still, that there was now no open way out. Thus, it may be said, that
our old Bancroft farmer-friend, in his most uncomfortable position, was
comparable to the banker held as hostage by a bold gang of robbers who
had just looted his bank. I know. I spent two days with the dispirited old
man in the oil field.
The Blue Sky Board was fostered to check on promotions whose stocks
were strongly, if not wholly, tinctured with the azure blue. Along about
1905-06-07 questionable promotions—mostly mining—sprang up all over
the country. Kansas City had several going full blast at one time. I had
occasion to call on one of them; had arranged the meeting through
correspondence. I entered a very large room where perhaps thirty or forty
girl-typists were busily preparing literature to be sent out by mail to
inquirers secured through newspaper advertisements. The printed portion of
the literature had been prepared by “experts” copy-writers—and it is
surprising how those fellows could make an inferior proposition appeal to
the gullible.
The Fiscal Agent’s secretary, or outside girl, stationed near his private office
—he had a better looking secretary in his office—said she believed the
“boss” was not in. I gave her my name and stated my business. She went
into the private office, and returned saying, Mr. so-and-so would see me.
However, had I been a questionable caller, the outside girl would have told
me upon returning that he was not in, and that she had learned from his
inside secretary that he had gone out of town and would not be back that
day. This was the system. The “boss” did not want to see any of his
subscribers—nor an officer of the law.
One of those Kansas City promotion companies was selling stock in what
was called a Ten Million Dollar Development—that is, ten million shares,
par-value one dollar, sold at two cents a share, the idea being to offer the
purchaser a lot for little money, out in our mining district in Nevada. It was
40. highly advertised as the “Extension of the Great (Searchlight) Quartette
Vein.” The outfit was actually sinking a shaft about a half-mile out in the
valley west of the mountain-situated Quartette mine—a rich gold producer
—without reasonable chance of picking up anything in the way of values.
Too many promotions like this were victimizing the people. The Blue Sky
Board’s function was to keep them out of Kansas.
In our own mine promotion, I did some newspaper advertising in Topeka—
but, first, I had to get a clearance from the Blue Sky Board (in Bank
Commissioner Dolley’s office) showing that our company was on the
square; that the stock was a fair risk; that purchasers were fully and
truthfully informed; and most important of all, that the purchasers would
get a run for their money—meaning that the money so collected must not be
used in paying for a “dead horse.”
On full-page advertising in a number of papers, I received on the average
one inquiry for each 3,000 circulation—but I sold practically all of them.
This was only about one-hundredth part of the returns the Kansas City
fellows were getting. And I had strong copy, too. The newspaper boys said
it was unusually strong. But I made the mistake—from the promoter’s view
point—of telling the readers the truth, that we had not carried the
proposition to a point where we were about ready to begin handing out
dividends, which was the Kansas City boy’s big drawing card. This was
costing too much—and I discontinued selling the stock, hoping that we
might yet find an Agent who would have better luck. We used up the funds
on hand; then went at it individually again. And the six miners continued on
the job, taking their full wages in our treasury stock.
Let it be understood that the mining stock I sold was far from being in the
blue sky class—and that the job of selling it was “wished” on me. While in
the process of incorporating, our president, Frank Williams, had made
tentative arrangements with Los Angeles “Fiscal Agents”—that’s what they
called themselves then—to sell our treasury stock, but failed to conclude a
satisfactory contract with them. He had encountered the same questionable
line of approach out there that caused me to turn down the Kansas City
“Fiscal Agents.”
41. Might say that in the first place, on his recommendation, I had joined Frank
Williams in the purchase of the initial lead-zinc-vanadium claim—only lead
discovered then—on which our corporation was mainly based. Included in
the corporation also were three (gold) claims in the Crescent district, owned
by Frank and his brother Tommy Williams, A. M. Harter, and Jonah Jones.
These Crescent claims were taken in on a basis of one-sixth of the
combined value. Our lead claim had the further approval of that veteran
millionaire miner, Green Campbell—indeed, had he not died suddenly of
pneumonia, Green, instead of I, would have been Frank’s partner. Frank had
been with Green Campbell, and his uncle Elwood Thomas—all three of the
men former Wetmore citizens, in the Goodsprings district for twelve years,
at that time.
Then, too, those Crescent gold claims held appeal. What think you that your
heart would have done to you, had you been able to go out on your own
holdings and scrape up dirt—disintegrated rock, assaying $544 gold to the
ton—at a time when the fabulous production of the not too distant
Comstock mines in Nevada, with less glowing beginning, was being
proclaimed all over the land as having saved the credit of the Nation during
Civil War days.
And, by the way, isn’t it about time for us to dig again?
Please—somebody, anybody, everybody—pray with me for a redeeming
Comstock as of yore, only let it be such stepped up magnitude as to save,
beyond the possibility of a slip, the credit of our Uncle Sam, even in his
magnanimous undertaking to tide, piggyback, all those unstable old country
states over the troubled waters of world unrest—in an effort to convince a
certain belligerent-minded Old World character that war is, a la Sherman,
indeed “hell.”
But remember, mines are made—not found.
Before incorporating, we (Frank and I), worked the lead claim for nearly
two years—or rather, Frank did the work and I paid him one-half of the
prevailing miner’s wage. We were trying our best to make a paying mine of
it—and may I say that, encouraged by occasional shipments, there were
times when we believed we were right at the door of accomplishment.
42. The point I’m trying to stress here is, that we did not acquire the mining
claims for the purpose of launching a stock-selling enterprise, as was so of
ter done about that time. But we learned that more often than not even
promising mining prospects require the expenditure of more money than
we, as individuals, could devote to it—hence the incorporation.
Thus it is that, in the fullness of Time, I have tried mining—to the tune of
Six Thousand Dollars, plus; out of pocket—and I’ve tried oil, not once but
three times; and I’ve even tried real estate speculation in the boom days of
Port Arthur, Texas—all avenues leading up to the coveted get-rich-quick-
field—and so help me, I have never taken down a dollar.
I promised my companion of the day that I wouldn’t tell about our
“investments” in Port Arthur town lots. But that was a long time ago,
between the time he was elected Governor of Kansas, from Nemaha
County, and the time he served as Governor of the Federal Reserve Bank in
Kansas City, Missouri. So I opine that it doesn’t matter now, since he is
safely beyond the pale of political patronage. In the new boom town of Port
Arthur that warm January day about the turn of the century, the “boomers”
showed us the location, with rock foundation all ready in place, for a bank
building, with brick enough piled on the site to build an edifice big enough
to house all the money in the world. But the most revealing report I ever got
from my friend, the Governor, on our investments, was that the restless
bank foundation and its companion brick pile had gone on the prowl,
virtually slipped from one end of the plotted business section to the other
end, taking now and then a rest period.
The old regulars in our group of “investors” are about all dead now—or
have dropped the Big Idea. Joe Searles, at present prescription clerk in a
Sabetha drugstore, never in too deeply with the old group, is in line to get
his now. He has taken on both leases and royalties in the Strahm field. The
development so far has been done by the Carter Oil Company, holding most
of the leases. But private interests are trafficking in royalties in a big way.
Should Joe make good—that is, break into the big money where the Internal
Revenue take would warrant him in throwing away a portion of his
winnings in “wildcatting,” I suggest that he come home—and finish the
Haigh-Lapham oil test. This—and other betterments for the old home town
43. —is what I planned on doing, had I become burdened with mine-made
money.
Also, let it be understood that I took no part in the organization of our group
of “investors,” or the promotion of any of our oil speculations.
And now a last word.
Since it appeared that our Southern Kansas co-partners had risked their own
money, or more likely their credit, in completing the drilling, incurring
disappointment—and, crowded by an unseen hand, (which I believe I could
have put my finger on), had taken the wrong way out of the dilemma, and if
I were not mistaken they yet had a long, long way to go to get out of the
woods; so then, let us be lenient. Why say an unkind word about your
neighbor—when it gets you nothing? Don’t know if they ever sold any
more of the newly voted stock, or if they did any more drilling. Never heard
from them again.
In tolerance of human frailty, let me say that our old Bancroft farmer-friend,
allied with keener personalities, had always been a reputable man—that the
doctor-secretary, and the merchant-prince apparently stood high among
their fellowmen—and then there was Ella J., holder of some mining stock.
But, even so, had I not lost interest in the investigation, considered it
hopeless, I believe I could have found “sticks” in more than one eye.
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