At last we were ready for the boats, and you may be sure we lost no time in having them hauled to the river, and launching them.

They were beauties—­these two boats of ours—­graceful, yet strong in line, floating easily, well up in the water, in spite of their five hundred pounds’ weight.  They were flat-bottomed, with a ten-inch rake or raise at either end; built of white cedar, with unusually high sides; with arched decks in bow and stern, for the safe storing of supplies.  Sealed air chambers were placed in each end, large enough to keep the boats afloat even if filled with water.  The compartment at the bow was lined with tin, carefully soldered, so that even a leak in the bottom would not admit water to our precious cargoes.  We had placed no limit on their cost, only insisting that they should be of materials and workmanship of the very best, and strictly in accordance with our specifications.  In every respect but one they pleased us.  Imagine our consternation when we discovered that the hatch covers were anything but water-tight, though we had insisted more upon this, perhaps, than upon any other detail.  Loose boards, with cross-pieces, fastened with little thumbscrews—­there they were, ready to admit the water at the very first upset.

There was nothing to be done.  It was too late to rebuild the hatches even if we had had the proper material.  Owing to the stage of water it was imperative that we should start at once.  Bad as it would be to have water in our cargo, it would be worse to have too little water in the rock-obstructed channels of Red Canyon, or in the “flats” at Brown’s Park for instance.

Certainly the boats acted so beautifully in the water that we could almost overlook the defective hatches.  Emery rowed upstream for a hundred yards, against a stiff current, and came back jubilant.

“They’re great—­simply great!” he exclaimed.

We had one real cause for worry, for actual anxiety, though; and as each hour brought us nearer to the time of departure, we grew more and more desperate.  What about our third man?

We were convinced that a third man was needed; if not for the duties of camp making, helping with the cooking and portaging; at least, for turning the crank of the motion-picture camera.  Emery and I could not very well be running rapids, and photographing ourselves in the rapids at the same time.  Without a capable assistant, therefore, much of the real purpose would be defeated.

Our first move, accordingly, had been to secure the services of a strong, level-headed, and competent man.  Friends strongly advised us to engage a Canadian canoe-man, or at least some one familiar with the management of boats in rough water.  It was suggested, also, that we might secure the help of some one of the voyagers who had been members of one of the previous expeditions.

But—­we may as well be frank about it—­we did not wish to be piloted through the Colorado by a guide.  We wanted to make our own trip in our own way.  If we failed, we would have no one but ourselves to blame; if we succeeded, we would have all the satisfaction that comes from original, personal exploration.  In other words, we wanted a man to execute orders, not to give them.  But that man was hard to find!