Copyright 1926, 1927
BY
UPTON SINCLAIR
——
Copyright in Great Britain
——
All rights reserved.
Shuffle the cards, and deal a new round of poker hands:they differ in every way from the previous round, and yet it isthe same pack of cards, and the same game, with the samespirit, the players grim-faced and silent, surrounded by a hazeof tobacco-smoke.
So with this novel, a picture of civilization in SouthernCalifornia, as the writer has observed it during eleven years’residence. The picture is the truth, and the great mass ofdetail actually exists. But the cards have been shuffled; names,places, dates, details of character, episodes—everything has beendealt over again. The only personalities to be recognized inthis book are three presidents of the United States who haveheld office during the past fifteen years. Manifestly, one couldnot “shuffle” these, without destroying all sense of reality. Butthe reader who spends his time seeking to identify oil magnatesand moving picture stars will be wasting time, and perhapsdoing injustice to some individual, who may happen to haveshot off his toe to collect accident insurance, but may not happento be keeping a mistress or to have bribed a cabinet official.
OIL!
A Novel by Upton Sinclair
CHAPTER I
THE RIDE
I
The road ran, smooth and flawless, precisely fourteen feetwide, the edges trimmed as if by shears, a ribbon of greyconcrete, rolled out over the valley by a giant hand. The groundwent in long waves, a slow ascent and then a sudden dip; youclimbed, and went swiftly over—but you had no fear, for youknew the magic ribbon would be there, clear of obstructions,unmarred by bump or scar, waiting the passage of inflatedrubber wheels revolving seven times a second. The cold windof morning whistled by, a storm of motion, a humming androaring with ever-shifting overtones; but you sat snug behinda tilted wind-shield, which slid the gale up over your head.Sometimes you liked to put your hand up, and feel the coldimpact; sometimes you would peer around the side of theshield, and let the torrent hit your forehead, and toss your hairabout. But for the most part you sat silent and dignified—becausethat was Dad’s way, and Dad’s way constituted theethics of motoring.
Dad wore an overcoat, tan in color, soft and woolly intexture, opulent in cut, double-breasted, with big collar and biglapels and big flaps over the pockets—every place where atailor could express munificence. The boy’s coat had been madeby the same tailor, of the same soft, woolly material, with thesame big collar and big lapels and big flaps. Dad wore d