“According to Mr. Henderson, he’s been running these rapids ever since he was seven years old.”

Mike shook his head. “What some people will do for fun!”

The boys scrambled down the side of a steep embankment and approached the river. Crowded around a homemade dock directly ahead of them were several boys about ten or eleven years of age. Except for the youngest ones, who had on bathing trunks, all the boys were dressed in faded dungarees and T-shirts. Sandy and Mike ambled up to the dock and hailed a sturdy lad who was busy inflating his canvas raft.

“Do you know where we can find Doug Henderson?” Sandy asked.

The boy looked up and pointed. “Sure. Hey, Doug!”

A friendly face covered with freckles popped up from the other side of the dock. “Hi!” he called. “You the fellows that Pop sent over?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sandy saw Mike’s jaw drop. “That’s right.” He smiled. “Think you can teach us to handle these?” He held out a raft.

The boy rubbed his hands along the sides of his dungarees and vaulted over a wooden piling sunk into the ground. “Sure!” he cried confidently. “Nothing to it!”

“So he’s been running these rapids ever since he was seven years old!” Mike murmured. “That gives him about three weeks’ experience.”

As usual Mike was exaggerating. Doug, though small, was nearly eleven and he had all the assurance of a qualified expert in his field.

“You’re going down the Lost River.” It was more a statement than a question.

“That’s right.”

The boy shook his head in envy. “Lucky. It’s wonderful country. Have you got a guide yet?”

“My father’s out arranging for one now,” Mike said.

“Hope he gets a good one. It makes all the difference.” He pronounced this judgment with so much grown-up seriousness that Sandy had to fight to suppress a smile.

“You’re right,” he acknowledged, “but it won’t make any difference to us unless we can learn how to shoot some of those rapids.”

“All right, let’s have one of your rafts.”

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