The snatch of conversation had been overheard by Brad and Dan and added to their alarm.
Although they knew the river would not rise to a dangerous level for many hours, the flood risk at Silverton’s pheasant farm was immediate.
If the rain had been heavy in the hill area as reported by the trucker, then an enormous amount of water soon would pour down into Crooked Creek. Even under normal circumstance, the narrow stream scarcely could be expected to carry the excess away without flooding.
Brad stood nervously drumming his fingers against the wall of the filling station, thinking matters over.
“I sure wish I knew if Saul Dobbs ever cleared away that log jam,” he said. “What do you think, Dan?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But knowing him, I’d say he hasn’t touched those logs.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of Dan. Dobbs has been mighty unpleasant to the Cubs. Even so, I’d hate to see any of Mr. Silverton’s pheasants drown through his carelessness.”
“Same here.”
“Dan, I’m going to telephone Dobbs,” Brad said, reaching a sudden decision. “Then we’ll have the matter off our minds at least. Got a nickel?”
“My last one,” Dan said, fishing a coin from his pocket.