Turning from the telephone, Brad’s troubled eyes sought those of Dan in silent question.
Both boys knew that something must be done quickly if the pheasants were to be saved. Yet they hesitated to disobey by again venturing onto private property to investigate the choked stream.
“Let’s telephone Mr. Silverton,” Dan urged. “Being in the city, he may not realize how heavy the rain was out here.”
Brad lost no time in making the call. But when he gave his name at Mr. Silverton’s office, he coldly was informed that the sportsman was “busy.”
“I must talk to him right away,” Brad argued. “It’s important.”
“Sorry,” repeated the voice. “Mr. Silverton has given orders that your calls are not to be transmitted to him. So sorry.” The receiver clicked in his ear.
“How’d you like that?” Brad howled. “We try to save his old pheasants and he won’t even talk to us!”
“We’ve got to get word to him somehow,” Dan insisted. “Brad—”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t we hitch a ride with that truck driver into the city? If we can get to Silverton’s office in time, we ought to be able to make someone understand what’s happening out here.”