It seemed to the boys in the canyon as if the night would never end. At intervals, they dozed, but their slumber, disturbed by distressing thoughts, was not refreshing.
Bob Somers, in his wakeful moments, felt the strangeness and danger of the situation with full force. How out of the world he felt, hemmed in between those great walls; how was it going to end? He cudgeled his brain in vain, and occasionally rose and walked to the edge of the river, where he tried to pierce the gloom that enshrouded them.
At dawn, a chilling air was sweeping through the canyon. The narrow slit of sky seen between the towering heights was of a palish green. A rosy cloud floated slowly across, and a lone hawk winged its way, high up. They mechanically watched the bird approach, pass overhead, and disappear.
Bob Somers drew a long breath, as he glanced aloft.
"Don't believe I ever saw anything look so high," he said.
"Let's go for our breakfast," suggested Dave.
"Blackberries," said Bob, with a sniff of disgust. "I hate blackberries—shape, smell, taste—everything. Don't believe I shall ever eat another."
"And I don't believe we shall ever eat anything else," observed Sam, gloomily.
"Cheer up, fellows! While there's blackberries, there's hope," put in Dave, with a faint smile. "After breakfast, we'll hold a council—something must be done."
With difficulty, the three managed to swallow the berries, and then drink a quantity of water, as Bob said, to "take the taste out of their mouths."