“Flour? Beef? Bacon?”
“Not today. We’re well supplied. Matter of fact, we crossed the river more for the excursion than anything else. This rain has kept us rather closely confined.”
“Sure, the weather has been against you,” the storekeeper agreed as he weighed the fruit. “We’re due for a turn though.”
Skillfully, Mr. Hatfield directed the conversation along the line he wished it to take.
“The Cubs were saying this morning they’d like to visit Silverton’s pheasant farm. By the way, who is in charge there?”
“A fellow by the name of Dobbs—Saul Dobbs. He looks after the place for Mr. Silverton. A rather disagreeable customer, I’m told.”
“I take it he doesn’t like visitors at the farm?”
“He drives ’em off,” the storekeeper said, handing Mr. Hatfield his change.
“On orders from Mr. Silverton?”
“That I wouldn’t know. But Silverton seems like a fairly decent sort of chap. Friendly and approachable.”