Brad found the number of the Silverton Pheasant Farm in the directory which hung from a cord on the wall. But no one answered his call. He allowed the telephone to ring a long while before finally hanging up the receiver.
“No use,” he said in disappointment. “Dobbs doesn’t seem to be there. Maybe he’s outside looking after the pheasants.”
The filling station attendant who had come into the office for change, overheard Brad’s remark.
“You’re trying to get Saul Dobbs?” he inquired.
“That’s right.”
“You won’t find him at the pheasant farm. Just before the storm broke I saw him driving toward Webster City.”
“And he hasn’t returned since?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Then that means there’s no one in charge now at the pheasant farms,” Brad said anxiously. “With the creek rising so fast, it’s likely to back up into the pens.”
“Saul Dobbs is a careless, shiftless sort,” the filling station man replied with a shrug. “I never could see why Mr. Silverton kept him in charge.”