and
immediately after arriving they had appeared for the ride down the
Bright Angel in riding suits that were identical in color, cut and
effect--long-tailed, tight-buttoned coats; derby hats; stock collars;
shiny top boots; cute little crops, and form-fitting riding trousers
with those Bartlett pear extensions midships and aft--and the prevalent
color was a soft, melting, misty gray, like a cow's breath on a frosty
morning. Evidently they had both patronized the same tailor.

He was a wonder, that tailor. Using practically the same stage effects,
he had, nevertheless, succeeded in making Clarence look feminine and
Clarice look masculine. We had gone down to the rim to see them off. And
when they passed us in all the gorgeousness of their city bridle-path
regalia, enthroned on shaggy mules, behind a flock of tourists in
nondescript yet appropriate attire, and convoyed by a cowboy who had no
reverence in his soul for the good, the sweet and the beautiful, but
kept sniggering to himself in a low, coarse way, we felt--all of
us--that if we never saw another thing we were amply repaid for our
journey to Arizona.

The exactly opposite angle of this phenomenon was presented by a certain
Eastern writer, a member, as I recall, of the Jersey City school of Wild
West story writers, who went to Arizona about two years ago to see if
the facts corresponded with his fiction; if not he would take steps to
have the facts altered--I believe that was the idea. He reached El Tovar
at Grand Canon in the early morning, hurried at once to his room and
presently appeared attired for breakfast. Competent eyewitnesses gave
me the full details. He wore a flannel shirt that was unbuttoned at the
throat to allow his Adam's apple full sweep, a hunting coat, buckskin
pants and high boots, and about his waist was a broad belt supporting on
one side a large revolver--one of the automatic kind, which you start in
to shooting by pulling the trigger merely and then have to throw a
bucket of water on it to make it stop--and on the other side, as a
counterpoise, was a buck-handled bowie knife such as was so universally
not used by the early pioneers of our country.

As he crossed the lobby, jangling like a milk wagon, he created a
pronounced impression upon all beholders. The hotel is managed by an
able veteran of the hotel business, assisted by a charming and
accomplished wife; it is patronized by scientists, scholars and
cosmopolitans, who come from a