Dan next telephoned his own home where his mother answered.
“I’m glad you are safe, Dan,” she said in relief. “I’ll call Brad’s mother and set her mind at ease. Don’t try to come home until the rain lets up.”
For a half hour, the storm continued without signs of slackening. Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain ended. Clouds gradually cleared away and the sun straggled out. Steam began to rise from the drying pavement.
Brad and Dan wandered outside, debating whether to return to their post or walk to Webster City.
“Mr. Hatfield wouldn’t expect us to go back there after such a terrific storm,” Brad said. “On the other hand, I don’t like to walk off a job just because the going gets tough.”
A big truck loaded with furniture rumbled into the station. The driver sprang out and after ordering the attendant to fill up the gasoline tank, began to inspect the heavy-tread tires.
“That was sure some storm,” he remarked to the filling station man. “Up in the hills the rain was heavy.”
“It’s a cinch the river will rise again,” replied the attendant, removing the hose from the mouth of the gasoline tank. “Creeks running high?”
“Out of their banks most places.”
“Any serious floods between here and Alton Heights?”
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The water’s coming up fast. I was lucky to get through.”
The snatch of conversation had been overheard by Brad and Dan and added to their alarm.
Although they knew the river would not rise to a dangerous level for many hours, the flood risk at Silverton’s pheasant farm was immediate.
If the rain had been heavy in the hill area as reported by the trucker, then an enormous amount of water soon would pour down into Crooked Creek. Even under normal circumstance, the narrow stream scarcely could be expected to carry the excess away without flooding.
Brad stood nervously drumming his fingers against the wall of the filling station, thinking matters over.
“I sure wish I knew if Saul Dobbs ever cleared away that log jam,” he said. “What do you think, Dan?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But knowing him, I’d say he hasn’t touched those logs.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of Dan. Dobbs has been mighty unpleasant to the Cubs. Even so, I’d hate to see any of Mr. Silverton’s pheasants drown through his carelessness.”
“Same here.”
“Dan, I’m going to telephone Dobbs,” Brad said, reaching a sudden decision. “Then we’ll have the matter off our minds at least. Got a nickel?”
“My last one,” Dan said, fishing a coin from his pocket.
Brad found the number of the Silverton Pheasant Farm in the directory which hung from a cord on the wall. But no one answered his call. He allowed the telephone to ring a long while before finally hanging up the receiver.
“No use,” he said in disappointment. “Dobbs doesn’t seem to be there. Maybe he’s outside looking after the pheasants.”
The filling station attendant who had come into the office for change, overheard Brad’s remark.
“You’re trying to get Saul Dobbs?” he inquired.
“That’s right.”
“You won’t find him at the pheasant farm. Just before the storm broke I saw him driving toward Webster City.”
“And he hasn’t returned since?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Then that means there’s no one in charge now at the pheasant farms,” Brad said anxiously. “With the creek rising so fast, it’s likely to back up into the pens.”
“Saul Dobbs is a careless, shiftless sort,” the filling station man replied with a shrug. “I never could see why Mr. Silverton kept him in charge.”
Turning from the telephone, Brad’s troubled eyes sought those of Dan in silent question.
Both boys knew that something must be done quickly if the pheasants were to be saved. Yet they hesitated to disobey by again venturing onto private property to investigate the choked stream.
“Let’s telephone Mr. Silverton,” Dan urged. “Being in the city, he may not realize how heavy the rain was out here.”
Brad lost no time in making the call. But when he gave his name at Mr. Silverton’s office, he coldly was informed that the sportsman was “busy.”
“I must talk to him right away,” Brad argued. “It’s important.”
“Sorry,” repeated the voice. “Mr. Silverton has given orders that your calls are not to be transmitted to him. So sorry.” The receiver clicked in his ear.
“How’d you like that?” Brad howled. “We try to save his old pheasants and he won’t even talk to us!”
“We’ve got to get word to him somehow,” Dan insisted. “Brad—”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t we hitch a ride with that truck driver into the city? If we can get to Silverton’s office in time, we ought to be able to make someone understand what’s happening out here.”
Brad did not take a moment to debate. Already the trucker was starting to pull away from the filling station.
“Come on,” he urged, bolting out the door.
The boys signaled the truck driver who halted just before he reached the main highway.
“Are you driving to Webster City?” Dan shouted.
“That’s right.”
“Will you give us a lift?”
“I sure will,” the trucker agreed heartily, opening the cab door. “Hop in, boys.”
As the truck rattled along the slippery road, Dan and Brad told the driver of their urgent reason for reaching the Gardiner Building.
“You’re making no mistake in thinking that creek will flood,” the trucker declared, putting on more speed. “Even if the stream isn’t clogged, she’s sure to go over her banks.”
To help the boys, the driver dropped them off directly in front of the Gardiner Building. Their shoes caked with mud, their wet hair still plastered down, the pair made a sorry appearance as they entered Mr. Silverton’s outer office.
Seeing Brad and Dan, the receptionist regarded them with cold disapproval.
“I told you over the telephone that Mr. Silverton will not see you,” she said before Brad could
