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Bob got up early in order to see the Canyon at sunrise the morning after Steve Whitney went away, but found that in comparison to the sunset it was tame. Yet so inspiring was it that he was glad he had taken the trouble. The panorama spread before his eyes was one of which no other country could boast. Bob had seen pictures of it, had read about it, and had been taught about it from his geography, but nothing that he had read or heard or learned had given him even a faint idea of the glory of the thing as it actually was, no matter what time of the day it was seen. “Not a bit,” said John. “It was the fault of the postmaster’s boys entirely. See what I’ve got.” And Johnny Blossom took his English boatswain’s whistle out and blew it, with beaming face. “Find your ridge,” invited Bob politely, “the one behind which our river flows on and on and—”.

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“And what did you see?” Uncle Isaac had not given him anything the last time he was there, nor the time before either, so very likely—Pshaw! Even if you got nothing at all from Uncle Isaac, it was always more than pleasant to go to Kingthorpe. He wasn’t going there to beg—far from it; he wasn’t quite so mean as that. Bob was not gagged. Probably his captors were certain that no matter how hard he yelled there would be no one near enough to hear. That being the case, the boy decided that it was useless to wear out his lungs. So he kept his tongue still and suffered in silence. Still, it was perfectly horrid that Tellef’s fishpole had got smashed. That was awfully bad luck. And his jacket torn, too. But how could he expect anything else when he was so horrid with his boasting and everything?.