he keeps his fancy pheasants in that area,” Dan explained. “The point is, Brad and I gave our promise the Cubs will stay away from the marked section.”
“We will,” said Midge. “You don’t have to worry.”
“Lead on,” sang out Mack.
The Cubs moved single file along the narrow woodland trail, noticing many fine oak, white elm, ash and birch trees.
“Say, we could get wood here for some dandy Indian bows and arrows!” Fred exclaimed enthusiastically. “Wonder if Mr. Silverton would mind?”
“We’ll not cut any wood without first asking permission,” said the Cub leader to his son. “And no playful whacks at any of the bushes,” he added, glancing at Chips who was known to have an itchy hand with a belt axe.
At a brisk pace, Mr. Hatfield led the Cubs on, crossing a creek at a footbridge. Soon he came to an open space which permitted a view of the Silverton barn, the hatchery, the holding pens and a small dwelling, evidently the cottage where Saul Dobbs lived.
Beyond the mesh enclosed pens, a field had been planted in cover strips of sorghum grass.
“Oh! Oh!” muttered Dan under his breath. “Here comes Old Man Trouble himself!”
Saul Dobbs, who had been interrupted as he clipped the wings of a blue-breasted pheasant, trod angrily toward the Cubs.
In his gnarled hands he still held the beautiful bird, whose handsome red neck feathers shaded off into a long silver white tail.
“What’s the big idea?” Dobbs demanded harshly. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from here? D’you want me to call the sheriff?”
“One moment, Mr. Dobbs,” said Sam Hatfield. “We have permission to visit the farm.”
“Mr. Silverton said you could come here?”
“Right.”
The information plainly annoyed the foreman, for he scowled. “How do I know you ain’t just saying that?” he demanded.
Dan produced the memorandum written in Mr. Silverton’s hand. Dobbs read it in stony silence.
“Okay, it’s nothing to me one way or the other,” he shrugged. “You can look around if you like. But mind, don’t get the birds stirred up.”
“Isn’t that a silver pheasant you have in your hand?” Mr. Hatfield inquired pleasantly.
“Yeah,” Dobbs agreed, leading the group to another pen. “This here one’s a rare breed from the Himalayas,” he explained, pointing to a pheasant with a short golden-orange tail.
“Do you keep golden pheasants too?” asked Dan.
“Sure, they’re over in those pens near the barn. You can tell a golden pheasant by their fluffy yellow crest, red breast and long yellow tail feathers in scale pattern.”
“I see you are quite an authority on pheasants,” the Cub leader remarked, hoping to coax the man into a good humor.
“Well, I been workin’ fer Mr. Silverton more’n two years now,” Dobbs informed in a less hostile tone. “But pheasant raisin’ is hard work. You have to keep close watch of the eggs when they’re hatching. There’s pens to be cleaned and fumigated, sick pheasants to be treated and always you have to be on the alert to see that none of ’em get away. I got too much to do.”
“We don’t mean to put you to any trouble,” said Mr. Hatfield. “Don’t let us keep you from your work.”
Dobbs shot the Cub leader a quick glance, half suspicious, and replied curtly: “If you want to see the silver pheasants, there’s a new hatch of ’em over in the south pens.”
“Does Mr. Silverton keep any birds that are imported from Burma or the Malay States?” Dan asked eagerly. “How about Germain’s peacock pheasant?”
“Seems you’re pretty well versed in pheasants,” Dobbs said, eyeing the boy keenly. “Who told you to ask that?”
“Why, no one. Mr. Silverton mentioned it, that was all.”
“Well, we got a few of ’em,” Dobbs said reluctantly. “We’re having trouble getting the birds started. You won’t find any of ’em here by the barn.”
Apparently annoyed by the question, the foreman walked away, leaving the Cubs to their own resources. However, as they wandered from one enclosure to another, they noticed that he watched them closely.
Careful not to disturb any of the hens or cocks, the Cubs spent half an hour around the pens. As they started to leave, Mr. Hatfield asked the foreman if he thought Mr. Silverton would object if they cut a little wood for Indian bow staves.
“Oh, I guess it’ll be all right, providin’ you don’t leave the trails,” Saul Dobbs said grudgingly. “Just be careful what you cut.”
Feeling that the foreman might not be such a bad sort after all, the Cubs retraced their way through the woodland toward the river.
Midway there, Fred suddenly announced that he was famished. “When do we eat?” he moaned.
“This seems to be as good a time as any,” said Mr. Hatfield, squinting at the sun which had climbed high overhead.
From their knapsacks, the Cubs broke out sandwiches, fruit, and candy bars. But when Chips would have started a fire to warm a can of soup he had brought along, the Cub leader vetoed the proposal.
“We’re still on Silverton’s land,” he reminded the Cubs. “No fires.”
After lunch, the Cubs lay for awhile under the trees, basking in the steamy warmth of the sun.
“I see a lot of good hickory and birch around here,” Red said, stirring to effort. “Let’s get busy on those Indian bow staves.”
“Go to it,” Mr. Hatfield urged. “But don’t mutilate any of the trees.”
For the next hour, the Cubs wandered about, selecting choice pieces of hickory, white elm and other woods favored for staves. Midge’s father showed them how to dress the ends.
“Time we’re getting back,” he announced suddenly, picking up his knapsack. “Come on, gang.”
“Say, where is Chips?” Brad demanded, counting noses.
“And Red?” added Dan.
“They were here only a few minutes ago,” Fred recalled. “Come to think, I heard Chips say something about looking for a yew tree!”
“That dumb cluck!” Dan exploded. “If he were in an evergreen forest, he’d start looking for a date palm!”
Mr. Hatfield whistled several times and waited for an answering signal. None came.
“Red and Chips can’t be far away,” he said.
“Want
