“You’re trespassers,” the stranger cut in.
“I assure you we do not mean to be. We very much would like to visit the farm.”
“Well, you can’t. Mr. Silverton doesn’t want no-account boys running wild over the place. They scare the pheasants and make no end of trouble.”
“The Cubs are reliable,” said Mr. Hatfield quietly. “I assure you, you’ll have no difficulty on that score.”
“Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”
“If we might see Mr. Silverton—” the Cub leader began, but again the other interrupted.
“Well, you can’t,” he snapped. “I’m Saul Dobbs, and I’m in charge here. Now get out before I lose patience.”
Glaring at the Cubs, the workman carelessly allowed his hand to drop to his belt where he carried a revolver in a holster. The gesture was not lost upon either Mr. Hatfield or the Cubs.
“We’ll go,” said the Cub leader, still without raising his voice. “But don’t think you’re scaring us.”
“Git going and don’t come back!” Saul Dobbs ordered in a blustering voice.