“As near as I can tell, between here and Bright Angel Trail,” replied the old guide, as he nodded in slumber again. “I wouldn’t go there, if I were you.”
“Well, we’re going,” said Jerry softly, as he bade the old man good-bye.
Saying nothing to anyone in the hotel about their plans, the boys made an early start the next morning, and were soon gliding down over the great chasm in their airship.
Below them rushed and foamed the great river—below in its chasm trough, with walls of vari-hued marble, of sandstone that rivaled the rainbow in tints, while in other places, near the water itself, were black rocks, of flinty hardness.
“And to think that it’s seven thousand feet from the top of that gulf to the water,” spoke Bob in awed tones. “I wouldn’t want to fall.”
As they went on they could see fogs and mists arising, while, as the sun rose higher and higher, it made a scene of indescribable beauty, the tints on the walls of the canyon changing every moment.
It was about noon, and Jerry had calculated that they had made about half the distance from Grand View, when Ned, who was looking at the rushing, foaming river below them, as it dashed along over a gorge filled with rapids, cried out:
“Jerry, do you see anything down there?”
The tall lad looked through the plate glass window in the bottom of the airship. Then he snatched up the binoculars and focused them.
“It’s a boat!” he cried. “A boat in those awful rapids! They’ve lost control of her, and she’ll be dashed to pieces!”