We have already told how hard Uncle Bob and Arthur worked to keep the boat from going into the canyon. The former did nothing but shout out orders, to which nobody paid the least attention, while Arthur stood by and looked on, without uttering a word.
“Yes, I know we did all we could,” replied Arthur, faintly; “but we couldn’t help him. Bob knew as well as we did that he was doomed. He told me yesterday, while we were down the river looking at the canyon, that if I went out in a boat, I must be careful not to let that current get hold of me. If I did, I might as well be in the rapids above Niagara Falls, for nothing could save me. Now, father, I can’t stay here any longer, and I want you to give me money enough to take me back to Bolton.”
“I should like to go there myself, or somewhere else, and stay until time has somewhat effaced the memory of this terrible occurrence; but, under the circumstances, I don’t think it best for either one of us to leave,” answered Uncle Bob.
“Why not?” asked Arthur. “Why can’t we both go?”
“Because our absence might give people occasion to say hard things about us.”
“I don’t see why it should. We had nothing whatever to do with it.”
“Certainly not. But that wouldn’t make any difference to these herdsmen, who are as unreasonable as so many pigs. I can see very plainly that they don’t like us, and don’t want us here; but, to tell you the plain truth, Arthur, I should be afraid to go away after what has happened.”
“Why would you?”
“Because these ignorant men would take it as a confession of guilt on my part.”
All unaccustomed as Arthur was to reasoning a posteriori—that is, from the effect to the cause—he told himself that his father never could have reached this conclusion if he had not felt guilty.