“Well, Enoch, old man, are you glad to go?”

“I dunno,” replied Nucky.

CHAPTER II

BRIGHT ANGEL

“I was sure, when I was eighteen, that if I could but give to the world a picture of Boyhood, flagellated by the world’s stupidity and brutality, the world would heed.  At thirty, I gave up the hope.”—­Enoch’s Diary.

No one could have been a less troublesome traveling companion than Nucky.  He ate what was set before him, without comment.  He sat for endless hours on the observation platform, smoking cigarettes, his keen eyes on the flying landscape.  His blue Norfolk suit and his carefully chosen cap and linen restored a little of the adolescent look of which the flashy clothing of his own choosing had robbed him.  No one glanced askance at Mr. Seaton’s protege or asked the lawyer idle questions regarding him.

And yet Nucky was very seldom out of John Seaton’s thoughts:  Over and over he tried to get the boy into conversation only to be checked by a reply that was half sullen, half impertinent.  Finally, the lawyer fell back on surmises.  Was Nucky laying some deep scheme for mischief when they reached San Francisco?  John had believed fully that he and Nucky would be friends before Chicago was passed.  But he had been mistaken.  What in the world was he to do with the young gambler in San Francisco, that paradise of gamblers?  He could employ a detective to dog Nucky, but that was to acknowledge defeat.  If there were only some place along the line where he could leave the boy, giving him a taste of out of door life, such as only the west knows!

For a long time Seaton turned this idea over in his mind.  The train was pulling out of Albuquerque when he had a sudden inspiration.  He knew Nucky too well by now to ask him for information or for an expression of opinion.  But that night, at dinner, he said, casually,

“We’re going to leave the main line, at Williams, Enoch, and go up to the Grand Canyon.  There’s a guide at Bright Angel that I camped with two years ago.  It’s such bad weather that I don’t suppose there’ll be many people up there and I telegraphed him this afternoon to give me a week or so.  I’m going to turn you over to him and I’ll go on to the Coast.  I’ll pick you up on my way back.”

“All right,” said Nucky, casually.

Mr. Seaton ground his teeth with impatience and thought of what Jack’s enthusiasm would have been over such a program.  But he said nothing and strolled out to the observation car.

It was raining and sleeting at Williams.  They had to wait for hours in the little station for the connecting train to the Canyon.  It came in, finally, and Seaton and Nucky climbed aboard, the only visitors for the usually popular side trip.  It was a wild and lonely run to the Canyon’s rim.  Nucky, sitting with his face pressed against the window, saw only vague forms of cactus and evergreens through the sleet which, as the grade rose steadily, changed to snow.  It was mid-afternoon when they reached the rim.  A porter led them at once into the hotel and after they were established, Seaton went into Nucky’s room.  The boy was standing by the window, staring at the storm.