ll parts of the world to see the Grand
Canon; and it is as up-to-the-minute in its appointments and service as
though it fronted on Broadway, or Chestnut Street, or Pennsylvania
Avenue.

Our hero careened across the intervening space. On reaching the dining
room he snatched off his coat and, with a gesture that would have turned
Hackett or Faversham as green with envy as a processed stringbean, flung
it aside and prepared to enter. It was plain that he proposed to put on
no airs before the simple children of the desert wilds. He would eat his
antelope steak and his grizzly b'ar chuck in his shirt-sleeves, the way
Kit Carson and Old Man Bridger always did.

[Illustration: HE WAS A REGULAR MOVING PICTURE COWBOY AND GAVE GENERAL
SATISFACTION]

The young woman who presides over the dining room met him at the door.
In the cool, clarified accents of a Wellesley graduate, which she is,
she invited him to have on his things if he didn't mind. She also
offered to take care of his hardware for him while he was eating. He
consented to put his coat back on, but he clung to his weapons--there
was no telling when the Indians might start an uprising. Probably at the
moment it would have deeply pained him to learn that the only Indian
uprising reported in these parts in the last forty years was a carbuncle
on the back of the neck of Uncle Hopi Hooligan, the gentle
copper-colored floorwalker of the white-goods counter in the Hopi House,
adjacent to the hotel!

However, he stayed on long enough to discover that even this far west
ordinary human garments make a most excellent protective covering for
the stranger. Many of the tourists do not do this. They arrive in the
morning, take a hurried look at the Canon, mail a few postal cards, buy
a Navajo blanket or two and are out again that night. Yet they could
stay on for a month and make every hour count. To begin with, there is
the Canon, worth a week of anybody's undivided attention. Within easy
reach are the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forests--thousands of
acres of trees turned to solid agate. If these things were in Europe
they would be studded thick with hotels and Americans by the thousand
would flock across the seas to look at them. There are cliff-dwellers'
ruins older than ancient Babylon and much less expensive.

The reservations of the Hopis and the Navajos, most distinctive of all
the Southern tribes, are handy, while all about stretches a big
Government reserve full