Treasure Hunt

The Signal Oil Program? The Whistler? That Whistler? Is your signal for the Signal Oil Program? The Whistler? I am the Whistler. And I know many things, for I walk by night.

I know many strange tales, hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Yes friends, it's time for the Whistler.

And remember, let every traffic signal remind you, with new signal gasoline you do go farther than ever. Look for the familiar big yellow and black circle sign that identifies those popular signal service stations in seven western states from Canada to Mexico.

And now the Whistler's strange story. Treasure hunt. If it were possible somehow to stand at some point in the distant future and look back at the life of Robert Bolton, we'd find it neatly divided into two halves, divided by a matchstick.

The first half was successful. Robert was an egotist whose egomania led him to believe that because he'd given the world the ecstatic pleasure of his company for 32 years, it owed him a living in return.

He lived by his wits, and because they were extraordinary wits, he managed to dodge, double in his tracks like a smart half-back avoiding tacklers, and keep one jump ahead of the law. And then one day, shortly after the train he was riding on, pulled into the little country town of Redmond.

Robert, standing on the station platform, put a cigarette in his mouth, and reached in his pocket for a match. The pocket was empty. shrugged and strolled across the street to the general merchandise store to buy a box. But it's two hundred thousand dollars at least. That's what you've been saying ever since old Colonel Randolph died. They've been living on credits for five years. Oh