A Rising Creek
Alarmed by the intensity of the storm, Dan and Brad made a dash through
the whipping trees, seeking an open area. Rain now was descending with
furious power, lashing directly into their faces.
“Gosh, I can’t see a thing!” Dan gasped. “Which way is the road?”
Brad turned on the beam of his flashlight, but it failed to penetrate the
blinding wall of rain.
Just then the lightning flared again, revealing an opening through the
bushes. Beyond Brad glimpsed the old logging road, a river of rainwater
despite its under-base of gravel.
“This way, Dan!” he shouted encouragingly. “Follow me.”
Sloshing through water and mud, they reached the barrier fence and
climbed over. The blinding sheet of rain all but blotted out a view of
the pavement.
“We’re safer here anyhow,” Brad said as they emerged from the woodland.
“Brother! Is this a storm?”
The rain showed no signs of slackening. However, now that the boys were
in a cleared area, the wind seemed less menacing.
“It’s dropping a little,” Brad observed, studying the treetops along the
pavement. “The crest of the storm probably has passed.”
“But the rain is still wet,” Dan shivered. “And it’s steady. No sign of a
let-up.”
Along the ditches, muddy water was rushing at a furious rate, draining
toward the nearby river.
The two boys scarcely knew which direction to go. They could recall no
houses close by where they might seek shelter. The nearest habitation was
Mr. Holloway’s camp across the river, but they had no boat.
“There’s a filling station up the road about a quarter of a mile!” Brad
recalled, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the wind.
“Let’s go there!”
Dan nodded and followed his companion. Rain drove directly into their
faces, closing off their view and making it difficult to walk.
“I sure wish a car would come along,” Brad muttered.
Now that they would have welcomed a ride, the busy highway suddenly had
become a deserted thoroughfare.
Struggling on, the Cubs presently came to a stone bridge arching over a
creek. Upon reaching it, the boys noticed that already its murky waters
were within two inches of flooding the pavement.
“Wow!” Brad exclaimed, pausing to glance briefly at the raging torrent.
“She’s coming up fast—and I mean fast!”
“Isn’t this the same creek that flows through Mr. Silverton’s property,
Brad?”
“That’s right.”
“If the log jam hasn’t been cleared out before this, the water’s likely
to start backing up in the pheasant runs just as Mr. Hatfield predicted!”
“I’m afraid of it,” Brad agreed. “Saul Dobbs ought to have looked after
things. But if he failed to, well, this storm will sure make a mess of
things at the farm.”
The boys stood a moment longer watching the torrent race beneath the
stone archway. So fast was the creek rising that they could see the
lapping waters nibbling away at the concrete. It would soon cover the
pavement.
“Twenty minutes and the water will be running over the road,” Brad said.
“If it’s clearing out at the pheasant farm, all well and good. But if it
starts backing up there, Dobbs is in for plenty of trouble.”
Dan made no reply. The two boys pushed on through the slanting rain
without meeting or being passed by a car. Finally, soaked and muddy, they
reached the filling station.
An attendant, seeing them coming, flung open the office door.
“You look like a couple of drowned rats,” he laughed. “Here, shed those
coats before you flood the place!”
Brad and Dan stripped off their slickers and wiped their dripping faces
with a coarse towel which the attendant brought from one of the rest
rooms. Then they sat down by the electric heater to outwait the rain.
“This is a regular cloudburst,” the filling station attendant remarked,
watching the rain pelt against the window. “Worst storm we’ve had this
summer.”
“May we use your telephone?” Dan requested.
“Sure. Go ahead. It’s your nickel.”
Dan dialed Mr. Hatfield’s number, intending to tell the Cub leader that
he and Brad had taken refuge at the filling station.
There was no answer. Actually, the Cub leader at the moment was driving
to the logging road. Alarmed by the intensity of the storm, he had lost
no time in setting forth to pick up the Cubs.
Unable to reach Mr. Hatfield, Dan next telephoned his own home where his
mother answered.
“I’m glad you are safe, Dan,” she said in relief. “I’ll call Brad’s
mother and set her mind at ease. Don’t try to come home until the rain
lets up.”
For a half hour, the storm continued without signs of slackening. Then as
suddenly as it had started, the rain ended. Clouds gradually cleared away
and the sun straggled out. Steam began to rise from the drying pavement.
Brad and Dan wandered outside, debating whether to return to their post
or walk to Webster City.
“Mr. Hatfield wouldn’t expect us to go back there after such a terrific
storm,” Brad said. “On the other hand, I don’t like to walk off a job
just because the going gets tough.”
A big truck loaded with furniture rumbled into the station. The driver
sprang out and after ordering the attendant to fill up the gasoline tank,
began to inspect the heavy-tread tires.
“That was sure some storm,” he remarked to the filling station man. “Up
in the hills the rain was heavy.”
“It’s a cinch the river will rise again,” replied the attendant, removing
the hose from the mouth of the gasoline tank. “Creeks running high?”
“Out of their banks most places.”
“Any serious floods between here and Alton Heights?”
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The water’s coming up fast. I
was lucky to get through.”
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.
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.”
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.”
Brad did not take a moment to debate. Already the trucker was starting to
pull away from the filling station.
“Come on,” he urged, bolting out the door.
The boys signaled the truck driver who halted just before he reached the
main highway.
“Are you driving to Webster City?” Dan shouted.
“That’s right.”
“Will you give us a lift?”
“I sure will,” the trucker agreed heartily, opening the cab door. “Hop
in, boys.”
As the truck rattled along the slippery road, Dan and Brad told the
driver of their urgent reason for reaching the Gardiner Building.
“You’re making no mistake in thinking that creek will flood,” the trucker
declared, putting on more speed. “Even if the stream isn’t clogged, she’s
sure to go over her banks.”
To help the boys, the driver dropped them off directly in front of the
Gardiner Building. Their shoes caked with mud, their wet hair still
plastered down, the pair made a sorry appearance as they entered Mr.
Silverton’s outer office.
Seeing Brad and Dan, the receptionist regarded them with cold
disapproval.
“I told you over the telephone that Mr. Silverton will not see you,” she
said before Brad could speak. “Those are his orders.”
“But we must see him!” Brad insisted. “Rains have flooded the creek and
some of the pheasants may drown if they aren’t taken care of right away!”
The receptionist looked somewhat startled. Having no idea what the boys
were talking about, she shook her head.
“I positively cannot disturb Mr. Silverton now,” she said. “If you want
to wait on the chance he’ll see you when he comes out, you may.”
“How long will that be?” Dan asked.
“Mr. Silverton usually leaves his office at four-thirty.”
“That’s fifteen minutes yet,” Brad said, glancing anxiously at the wall
clock. “We shouldn’t delay. Please—”
“I’ve already explained that I cannot disturb Mr. Silverton. Now if you
don’t mind, I have work to do.”
The receptionist busied herself typing a letter. However, the boys saw
her gaze with disapproval at the enlarging pool of water which dripped
from their slickers onto the floor.
At intervals, Dan and Brad would get up from the bench and go to the
window. Fifteen minutes already had elapsed. And still Mr. Silverton’s
office door remained closed.
Then at twenty minutes to five, when the Cubs had nearly given up hope,
the sportsman unexpectedly walked out of his inner office. He wore his
hat and coat and would have passed through without speaking to anyone,
had not the receptionist stopped him.
“Mr. Silverton, these boys have been waiting a long while to see you,”
she informed the pheasant farm owner. “They are quite insistent that it
is important.”
The sportsman gazed at Brad and Dan, and appeared to look straight
through them.
Deliberately turning his back, he then strode toward the outer door.
The Cubs had no intention of allowing him so easily to elude them.
“Please, Mr. Silverton, we must see you for a minute!” Dan exclaimed,
starting after him.
The sportsman acted as if he had not heard the appeal. Walking rapidly,
he continued toward the elevator.
Rebuffed, but nevertheless determined that Mr. Silverton should listen,
the two boys pursued him down the hall.
“Mr. Silverton, listen to us just for a moment—” Brad began, but the
stock broker cut him short.
“Pests!” he exclaimed. “Unless you cease annoying me, I’ll turn you over
to a policeman. I’ve had quite enough of Cub Scouts!”
By this time the elevator had stopped at the third floor. Glaring angrily
at Brad and Dan, Mr. Silverton entered the cage.
But not alone.
Stung by the sportman’s bitter words, the two boys crowded in with him.
The cage door closed.
“Mr. Silverton,” Dan said, gazing directly at the sportsman. “We’re sorry
to force ourselves upon you. But I’m afraid you’ll have to listen to us
now.”
“Oh, I will, eh?” Mr. Silverton demanded. “We’ll see about that!” He
rapped his cane sharply on the floor of the cage door. “Attendant, let me
out of here!”
However, he spoke too late, for already the elevator was moving slowly
downward.