"You should of heard 'em yelling, clapping their hands--! I"-- she choked, her voice failed her, miserably she concluded--"I wish to God we'd never struck oil!" "You're just wore out, dearie," her mother said, comfortingly, and Briskow agreed.

He assured her that all would be well.
All was not well, however.

The next morning when Gus Briskow was about to leave the hotel as usual--Professor Delamater having departed hurriedly the evening before with fully four minutes of his twenty to spare--he was stopped by the manager, who requested him to give up his rooms.

The Texan was bewildered; he could not understand the reason for such a request.
"'Ain't I paid my bills ?" he queried.
The manager assured him that he had; he was profoundly regretful, as a matter of fact; but it so happened that the Briskow suite had been reserved early in the season, and the party who had made the reservation had just wired that he was arriving that day.

He was a gentleman of importance--it was indeed unfortunate--the management appreciated Mr.Briskow's patronage--they hoped he and his family would return to the Notch sometime.
"Mebbe you got some other rooms that would do us," Gus ventured.
It was too bad, but the hotel was overcrowded.