“Have you seen anything of Mr. Sackett lately?” asked Jerry with a smile, as they finished dinner and sat in the hotel parlor for a rest before starting on again.
“No, but I expect to soon. I’ve got to go out that way. The county board of health has another case against him, and I expect to be sent on it within a day or two.”
“What’s it about—some more condemned calves?” asked Ned.
“No, it’s chickens this time. He’s got a big flock of what he claims are pure-blooded buff Cochins, but they’re not. They’re a hybrid strain, and what’s more they have an incurable disease. The trouble with Sackett is that he doesn’t feed his stock right, nor take any care of it. That’s why it’s nearly all diseased.
“These chickens are particularly bad. They’re nice-looking fowls, but as soon as they get to a certain age they die off. There are a lot of chicken-raisers around Sackett’s place, and they’re afraid their flocks will catch the ailment. So I’ve been ordered to tell him to get rid of all his fowls, disinfect his coops, and start all over. I know he’ll kick like a steer, he’s so miserly, but he’ll have to do it.”
“Has he got many chickens?” asked Bob.
“About two hundred, and he values them pretty highly, but they’re not worth a dollar. If any one bought them they’d be stuck, for the fowls would die inside of a month.”
The deputy inspector told the boys several stories about Mr. Sackett, and also regaled them with the news of the vicinity. Then, as they did not want to spend another night away from home, they said good-by and departed.
Jerry was driving the car, and they were going along at a good clip, when there came a sudden snap, and something seemed to be wrong. The tall lad brought the machine up with a jerk, jumped out, and made a hasty examination.