Sandy nodded grimly. “I felt the raft give a heave and I knew I’d better get out of there. But I was in too much of a hurry, I guess. I grabbed for the paddle and it shot out of my hand. Next thing I knew I was being carried on down to the rapids. If it hadn’t been for Mike....” Sandy broke off and shook his head.
“You mean if it hadn’t been for the way you taught me to use that fly rod!” Mike interrupted with a grin. “Boy, was I scared when I made that cast out to you! I knew it had to be just right!”
“And it was,” Mr. Cook said with a smile.
“Prettiest cast I ever saw,” Joe admitted. “Bet you could thread a needle with that thing.”
Mike flushed and worked furiously at the second can of peaches. “Well,” he said, “it worked out okay, so let’s forget it.”
Sandy looked at the three of them and felt a lump rise in his throat. “Listen,” he said, and he noticed his voice sounded strained and husky. “I don’t know how to thank you—all of you—for what you did. I guess it sounds sort of foolish to say that you saved my life, and all. But I just....”
Mr. Cook stood up and moved over beside Sandy. “Don’t say any more, Sandy. There’s no need to thank us. We were very lucky, that’s all.”
“But it was all my fault!” Sandy muttered, staring into the fire. “What a bonehead thing to do!”
“Sure,” Mr. Cook agreed cheerfully. “You should have been more careful. But you weren’t.” He shrugged expressively. “Now that it’s all over and done with, let’s look ahead.”
After a moment’s silence, Sandy grinned up at him. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve got my eye on tomorrow. What’s the schedule?”