"You could say that," the burgess said wearily. "There was a boy's camp a mile up the river. It's gone now, and eight of the kids are missing. We put a boat in the water, and all that happened was we lost a boat." He glanced at the dairy farmer. "How'd you know where to find me? Have you been in Hebertown?"
The dairy farmer nodded.
"Is it bad there?"
The dairy farmer coughed. "You haven't been in town for a while, have you?" He didn't look at the burgess. "The water was up to the corner where the Moose building is—you know? Somebody told me all the stores on Front Street are gone."
He went on from there. By the time the chief of police got back with old Sprayragen the burgess had pieced together an ugly picture.
As the jeep turned around, Burgess Starkman yelled, "Oh, by the way—thanks!" He looked blankly at Brayer. "Did you hear what he said?"
"Enough." Brayer looked sick. He burst out, "God amighty, Henry, we're doing this all wrong. We ought to be back in town, running the show, instead of out here trying to do everything ourselves. We ought to have two-way radio on the pumpers, and a first-aid emergency truck, and an organization set up year-round with volunteers trained for emergency work. Sure, it'd cost a little money, but what the hell, the taxpayers'll stand for it. Something like this will make godfearing citizens out of them for a while anyhow."
"Sure," said the burgess gently. "Sure, Red. You finish up here and come on back to town and we'll start over." He left the chief of police there, with his thick mustache running water and his old face worried and indignant. As he headed back to the car where the Chesbros were waiting, he thought: Red's a good man and he's right, only he hasn't finished thinking it through yet. We need all those things all right. But after this—what taxpayers?
Artie Chesbro was sulking. If that power-mad son of a bitch Starkman had been willing to give him two lousy minutes of his time, they could have got the whole thing over with and he'd be back in Summit by now, getting a good night's sleep, instead of catching pneumonia sitting in the car. He couldn't even help out in their lousy Boy-Scout act—they'd chased him back to the car the second time he'd fallen in, on the pretext that they didn't have another flashlight to replace the one he'd lost. So there went a fine chance to get Starkman's ear. Thank God, he told himself virtuously, nothing like this could happen back in Summit. For two cents he'd turn around and head back and the hell with the burgess—the old Swanscomb place wasn't worth all this trouble.