“Some class, eh, Bob?” laughed Whiskers as they settled themselves. “I found it and try to get here every night. But let’s stop talking; it’s about to begin.”
There was no need to talk; in fact, the glorious beauty of the panorama spread before him would have made it almost impossible to talk even if Bob had wanted to.
As far as the eye could reach, the great chasm extended. In it rose pinnacles, spires and mountain ranges, alternating with deep valleys and gulches. At the very bottom wound a tiny thread of silver, the Colorado River, for whose passage nature had undertaken such a gigantic task and, in its accomplishment, had created such beauty.
Bob’s first feeling was of his own littleness, his unimportance in the face of such magnitude. But this went away as the sun, dropping steadily to the opposite horizon, began to paint the scenes with magic colors.
It was as if the sun were an artist, who, not satisfied with his efforts, changed and changed again the colors on his canvas, for each moment the tints and hues would fade or grow more intense as the shadows grew deeper, and the scene would seem quite different.
When at last the sun dropped below the edge of the distant hills, leaving the Canyon in deep purple shadow, Bob turned to Mr. Whitney.
“That is all I can stand now,” he said. “It is too wonderful.”
He walked back to the hotel, too overcome by the beauty of the thing he had seen to attempt talking of it. Evidently Steve Whitney knew how the boy felt, for he did not break the silence. But once inside the house Bob realized that it had been a long time since luncheon.
“When’s supper, Boss Whitney? I’m hungry enough to eat tacks!”
The man laughed. “Even the Grand Canyon can’t keep a good, healthy appetite down for long, can it? I guess supper is pretty nearly ready now. But wait a minute—here is someone I want you to know.”