“Obviously, pheasants have been shipped out for resale,” the sportsman said. “This convinces me. And I rather think Freeze and Bauer are our boys!”
“The Cubs have given you a twisted story,” Dobbs whined. “I tell you I never saw this pheasant crate before.”
“Dobbs, you’re lying!” Mr. Silverton accused him. “I’ve seen that crate myself. Isn’t it one we kept as an extra? I remember one of the slats was broken. You mended it—”
“And here is the repaired place,” Dan pointed it out.
Thus tripped in his story, Dobbs began to stammer and make the excuse that he had failed to recognize the crate.
“I’ve had enough of your alibis,” Mr. Silverton said angrily. “You’ll do the rest of your explaining to the police!”
“Don’t turn me over to the authorities, Mr. Silverton,” the man pleaded. “I’ve worked for you two years—doing the best I could. I did make mistakes—I admit it, and the worst one was ever getting acquainted with those two yellow dogs, Jake Freeze and Bernie Bauer.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere, Dobbs. So you admit you worked with them in stealing my pheasants?”
“If I tell you the whole story, will you let me off?” Dobbs tried to bargain.
“We’ll see,” his employer returned coldly. “Unless you do tell me, I’ll call the police. I promise you that!”