the lofty ridges of the Alleghanies. Ominous clouds in the west hastened the approaching night. The proximity of a shelter in case of a heavy rainstorm caused us to accept the locktender's hospitality to tie up for the night alongside the flume at the head of the lock.

Left—"Sometub" Emerging from Mile-Long Tunnel Under Alleghany Mountains.
Above—Head of Navigation of Chesapeake and Ohio Canal at Cumberland, Md.
Below—"Sometub" Leaving Oakmont on Allegheny River.

Making the boat fast to the lockhouse we lighted our oil lantern, dropped the side curtains and disregarded the returning rain while we prepared dinner on two small stoves formed by a pair of tripod rings containing cans of solid alcohol. Motor boating creates a genuine appetite and we had all the facilities for preparing a good dinner in the smallest possible space. The deck of "Sometub" provided a dry place for the storing of bedding, dishes and supplies and there was no crowding at mealtime. After dinner we wrote up the log, spread a mattress in the bottom of the boat, fastened down the curtains and retired early.

The night was inky dark. The lights in the locktender's dwelling were extinguished before 9 o'clock and the denizens of the village of North Branch, several hundred yards away, seemed to seek repose at the same hour. The solitude of the place grew oppressive. About midnight we were aroused by a shriek that pierced the night air and echoed back from the mountains across the river. Parting the curtains, we saw two sheeted forms on the towpath, their ghostly outlines standing out against the cloudy sky, while the waters of the canal reflected a pair of shimmering specters which at first glance were calculated to make the average stranger wish that he made this trip in a Pullman car.

Again the shrieking broke forth and the sheeted forms began to move. We were undergoing our initiation in night traveling on the canal, but we didn't realize it at the time.

II.

There was a familiar rattle of harness. The specters moved again, but more quickly this time. Against the black infiniteness of the mountains across the river were the shadowy forms of a pair of gray mules hitched in tandem. Wearily they plodded off, and moving slowly, tediously, silently behind them a canal boat followed along at the end of an invisible towline.

A canal boat at night is a great hulk of hush. Its silence is positively uncanny. A few ripples momentarily disturb the placid surface of the water but as they swirl around the craft they seem to beckon a state of funereal quietude. You can hardly blame the midnight driver of the canal boat for his profane vociferousness in addressing his mules. His voice alone breaks the death-like stillness. After the lock has been passed and the patient animals take up their gait, even he is overcome by the environment and relapses into drowsy silence.

At intervals through the night other specters appeared over there on the towpath and their advent invariably was heralded by the same hair-raising shouts. The noise of cussing the poor mules followed as certainly as the agonizing "low music" during tense moments in a melodrama.

Tardy dawn ushered in a gloomy day. We placed our "canned heat" range on a lumber pile beside the North Branch lockhouse and had our coffee and bacon progressing satisfactorily toward the proper elements of an al fresco breakfast when rain began to fall. We retreated to the boat. The rain continued unabated and we breakfasted on board. Inasmuch as we were obliged to keep the curtains down and tuck the baggage under a poncho, it was impracticable—we thought—to proceed on our journey.

The locktender's office at North Branch has seen service for more than half a century. We can testify to this because after we had sought its shelter and read all the magazines bought on the beginning of the trip we turned to a perusal of the lockmaster's records. These books date back to the 60's and it was fascinating to read on the faded pages the entries for the boats and cargoes of a by-gone era. The boats now operating are distinguished by numbers from 1 to 100, but in the old days they bore names, suggestive, no doubt, of their architecture and other characteristics, or of the ambition of their owners.

Noon brought no cessation of the rain. We ate luncheon in the office. "Star boarders" could not have reported more promptly at meal time. Good appetites were the most encouraging features of this portion of the trip. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon the skies cleared slightly and in a few minutes we resumed our voyage. The three locks at North Branch, Nos. 75, 74 and 73, respectively, were negotiated in less than 15 minutes and we found ourselves on "Oldtown level."

In the language of the boatmen and the denizens of the canal country all geographical distinctions are made strictly "on the level." A "level," we learned, is that stretch of the canal between two given locks. From Cumberland to Georgetown (Washington) there are 75 locks, and consequently the same number of levels, plus one.

There is an ancient and honorable superstition to the effect that the person who sets out on a journey and turns back is certain to meet with disappointment. Ten minutes after we departed from North Branch we remembered that we had left our maps behind in the lockmaster's office. The maps, United States Geological Survey quadrangles, were indispensable and we turned back. Prompt and speedy came our disappointment.

The motor's affliction was difficult of diagnosis, but its trouble appeared to be serious. I had just made up my mind that the boat would have to be paddled or towed to the end of the level when Canal Boat No. 14 eased along. The skipper inquired we were "in trouble." It was mere charity and politeness of him to ask, because the expression on our faces must have told him that we regarded our condition as one of dire distress.

"His en-jine's done busted," shouted the little ragged muleteer as he passed us on his plodding animals.

"Ketch the line," advised the skipper, while we grasped the piece of rope he tossed toward us. Making his rope fast to a cleat on the bow we saw "Sometub" humiliated by being towed at the stern of a slow-moving freight boat towed in turn by two decrepit mules. "Sometub" felt the disgrace keenly and jerked about like an unbroken colt that feels a