All through the hot oil wars Hunt drilled wells like a madman. Shirtsleeves rolled above the elbow, khaki pants splattered with mud, a cigar habitually jammed in one corner of his mouth, he worked from dawn till late in the evening seven days a week, driving from well to well to well, often with his teenage son Hassie at his side. Every cent he took in—from oil sales, from the new First National loans, occasionally from selling part of a lease—he plowed back into the search for more oil. By the end of 1932, despite proration and chaotic conditions and drenching rains, he managed to drill an
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