A group of small boys dressed in white came marching down the street, stubbing toes over the uneven places because they must keep their eyes on the music while they played the uncertain strains of a march. They were very sleek as to hair, very shiny as to cheeks and very solemn, those boys. Their mothers and their fathers and their teachers were going to detect any false note or flatted sharp and tell them about it afterwards. Besides, there aren’t many boys who ever get a chance to stand on the platform and play when the Governor’s train comes in--and be the only band on the job. They felt the deep responsibility attendant upon the honor and thought feverishly of certain spots in the music where they weren’t quite sure they could make it; not with the whole town standing around listening. They fumbled their instruments, stood hipshot and consciously unconcerned while they waited for the train. Their leader glanced around the group, encountered certain anxious pairs of eyes fixed upon his face, and made an impulsive change in the programme. “The Star-Spangled Banner” was appropriate and customary for such occasions, but there were treacherous high notes which a certain scared boy might play flat, and other places where the slide trombone was in danger of skidding. He gave them a piece they could play with their eyes shut and was rewarded by hearing long sighs of relief here and there among the musicians. So it happened that when the train had slid into the station and the Governors and high officials had descended from the private car, Rawley caught the familiar air, “I’m forever blow-ing bubbles” floating out over the heads of the assembled citizens of Las Vegas. If the tune wabbled here and there, what matter? Governors and high officials can hear better music anywhere,--but they never will hear a more sincere effort to please, made by more loyal hearts than skipped beats under the white jackets of the “kid band” of Las Vegas. I’m dreaming dreams, I’m scheming schemes, I’m building castles high-- Rawley caught himself humming the words to himself and thought, in a heartsick way, of Nevada, only twenty-five miles from him, so far as miles went,--a million miles away in her thoughts. “I’ve talked Boulder Canyon Dam until I wonder sometimes if it isn’t Bubble Canyon, maybe,” a certain governor confided to him under his breath. “Do you reckon this is a civic confession the kids are making, or what?” “The civic air castle--nearest the kids can come to it,” Rawley grinned. “Wait till you hear this town stand up on its hind legs and tell you how they feel about it. They talk Boulder Canyon in their sleep, I reckon. It’s no bubble to _this_ bunch! If the rest of the country had half the enthusiasm this town has got, they’d be hauling concrete to the river to-day!” “Instead of the Commission, huh? Well, I wish they were.”