“Neither of the boys has a game rifle of his own. They’ll have one when we get back here. The second thing is this. As soon as I get my place in Montana, you people have a standing invitation to come up any time for the best hunting and fishing in the Rockies.”
“We’ll take you up on that, Joe,” Mr. Cook said.
“You bet!” Sandy cried enthusiastically.
Mike held up one hand. “There’s just one thing I want to know.”
“What’s that?”
“In Montana—does everything start at dawn? Or do you think maybe I could get some sleep?”
“Mike,” Joe replied, “when you come to visit me, I’ll arrange it so the fish don’t start to bite before noon, and as far as I’m concerned, you can do your hunting from a hammock.”
“That,” said Mike, “is something I’m looking forward to.”
“Right now,” Sandy said as he rose wearily to his feet, “the only thing I’m looking forward to is a good night’s sleep. When did you say that helicopter was going to get here?”
Hank reached over and snuffed out the kerosene lamp on the mantel. “At dawn,” he said. “Right on the stroke of five-thirty.”