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.” 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.