“Wouldn’t dream of going through those rapids, eh?” Mike muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he and Sandy walked over to the hill together.
Sandy grinned back at him. “What did you want me to say? That I do it all the time for laughs?” He watched Mike put down the straw bale and prop it solidly against the side of the hill. “Besides,” he whispered, “you know something?”
“What?”
“I’m afraid I may dream about it some night—and wake up screaming.”
“Come on!” a voice yelled. “You two fellows do more talking than a pair of old ladies!”
“Okay, Dad!” Mike shouted. “We’ll be ready in a minute.”
Quickly he helped Sandy drape the plastic cloth over the bale so that the concentric rings of the bull’s-eye faced Mr. Cook.
“Let’s weight it down with some stones,” Sandy suggested. “One or two shots and it’ll probably fly right off.”
“Good idea.”
“Boys!” It was Mr. Cook again. “Pace off fifty yards toward me.”