An overhanging branch showered Chips with raindrops as he brushed against it. “I sure hope that pheasant farm isn’t much farther,” he grumbled.
“Softie!” jeered Midge. “Maybe you could sit down somewhere on a nice comfortable log and we could bring the pheasants to you.”
“Aw, cut it,” Chips growled. “Can’t a guy crack a remark without being accused of turning soft?”
Mr. Hatfield and Dan, who were leading the Cubs, now halted unexpectedly, bringing the entire line up short.
Quite without warning, a heavy-set, round-faced man in checkered flannel shirt and corduroy breeches, emerged from behind a tree. Clearly he meant to block the trail.
“What are you boys doing here?” he flung at them.
Mr. Holloway moved past the Cubs to stand beside Dan and the Cub master.
Sam answered politely: “We’re on our way to Mr. Silverton’s pheasant farm. This trail leads there, I believe?”
“You’re on Silverton’s land now. He told you to come here, did he?”
“Why, no. We’re a Den of Cub scouts, and we thought we’d ask permission—”