it’s still known as Barstow’s Old Faithful — they came running to her with the news. She had been washing a great tubful of harsh greasy clothes — overalls, shirts, drawers. As the men came, shouting, she appeared in the doorway of the crazy wooden lean-to, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oil!” they shouted, idiotically. “Millions! Biggest gusher yet! It’ll mean millions! You’re a millionaire!” Then, as she looked at them, dazedly, “What’re you going to do, Mis’ Barstow, huh? What’re you going to do with it?”

Ma Barstow had brought one hand up to push back a straggling wisp of damp hair. Then she looked at that hand as she brought it down — looked at it and it’s mate, parboiled, shrunken,