Rawley caught himself humming the words to himself and thought, in a heartsick way, of Nevada, only twenty-five miles from him, so far as miles went,—a million miles away in her thoughts.
“I’ve talked Boulder Canyon Dam until I wonder sometimes if it isn’t Bubble Canyon, maybe,” a certain governor confided to him under his breath. “Do you reckon this is a civic confession the kids are making, or what?”
“The civic air castle—nearest the kids can come to it,” Rawley grinned. “Wait till you hear this town stand up on its hind legs and tell you how they feel about it. They talk Boulder Canyon in their sleep, I reckon. It’s no bubble to this bunch! If the rest of the country had half the enthusiasm this town has got, they’d be hauling concrete to the river to-day!”
“Instead of the Commission, huh? Well, I wish they were.”
A man pushed out of the fringe of common citizens who came merely to look upon assembled greatness and faced Rawley, smiling with his eyes.
“Uncle Peter!” Rawley gripped his hand and did not know that his eyes searched the crowd, wistfully, seeking a face—
“No, she didn’t come,” Peter informed him. “I want to get a chance to talk with the men in your outfit who count the most. Not on paper, but with the government. Can you fix it for me, boy?”
“Has anything happened?” Rawley drew him anxiously aside.
“No—I just want to get at the right men. I want you there, of course.” Peter glanced here and there at the men who were smiling, shaking hands, speaking pleasant phrases.
“All right. Of course every minute is mortgaged, I suppose, to the town. But I’ll get you—”