Seeking another drugstore at the edge of the village, the Cubs dialed the number of Mr. Silverton’s office. Again they were informed he had not returned.
Brad next called the sportsman’s home. Finally, after considerable delay, he heard Mr. Silverton on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Silverton,” he began, in his eagerness, talking too rapidly. “I’m sorry to bother you at your home, but there’s an important matter the Cubs feel should be straightened out. It’s about visiting your pheasant farm—”
“You’re one of those boys who came to my office?”
“Yes, I’m Brad Wilbur.”
“Well, get this!” said Mr. Silverton speaking with biting accent “Your privileges are at an end! Now don’t bother me again!”
“Mr. Silverton, let me explain,” Brad said quickly. “I assure you we didn’t deliberately break our promise—”
“You’ll explain nothing to me,” the sportsman replied. “I’ve seen quite enough of your behavior. The Cubs may consider themselves lucky if I don’t notify their parents and the police!”
And with that remark, Mr. Silverton slammed the telephone receiver.
Brad, bewildered by the tongue lashing he had received, called the telephone number again. But Mr. Silverton would not answer.