Mr. Beaver kicked at a pile of leaves and took a puff from his cigar. “Foreman!” he cried.
A harried-looking beaver in the distance looked up quickly and jogged over. “Mr. Beaver, sir, good you came down. The rat’s over here, we just got him out.”
They walked over to a pitiful-looking animal sitting on a stump, all matted gray fur and wide eyes, nose twitching. The rat’s leg was at a very odd angle.
“He’s still in shock,” said the foreman, jotting something on his clipboard. “Just a leg caught, but it’s in pretty bad shape. Might even be an amputation.”
“Uh huh,” muttered Mr. Beaver. “What exactly was the young man doing around here? He registered?”
“Yes, sir, of course he’s—“ He caught a look from Mr. Beaver. “He’s registered. Signed on for the Oak Run deal until it’s done, as a oddjob kinda guy.”
“I’ll say he shouldn’t be doing much more than that,” Mr. Beaver sniffed. “Well, we’ll just have to get our corporate attorney out here and survey it, should be pretty open-and-shut.”