Picturesque Water Mill Beside the Potomac
Isn't it peculiar how the smallest trifles will alter the most elaborate plans? A trifling ham sandwich in a two by four restaurant caused us to evacuate Hancock forthwith. We had intended to remain here a day or longer, run over to Berkley Springs and perhaps go fishing. Instead we left town so precipitately that we forgot to stop at the postoffice and ask if our mail had been forwarded.
A FEW miles east of Hancock is a wide-water a mile long in the canal known as Little Pool, the channel being about the width of the Monongahela river at the Smithfield street bridge. From Hancock to this point we were obliged to stop frequently on account of grass that clogged the propeller, and on entering Little Pool the obstruction was so great that it was necessary to get out and tow several hundred yards. When clear water was regained the motor began to show signs of balking, and after a heart-rending effort to repair it on the towpath, we threw the thing into the boat and paddled our way through the rural hamlet of Millstone where housewives, milking their cows on the bank of the canal, stared at us pityingly as we labored by. Cow stables and pig stys on the berm bank offered no mooring place in the town, and we plied the paddle until we reached a secluded stretch of woodland where we could be alone in our chagrin over the obstinacy of the motor.
When we lighted our lantern we were annoyed for the first time by a swarm of mosquitoes. We had been warned before the trip that these insects on the canal were related to the Jersey "man-eaters" and would make life miserable on our cruise. We were prepared for their ravages, but fortunately a little breeze sprang up after nightfall and they gave us no more trouble. They were the only militant mosquitoes that we saw between Cumberland and Georgetown.
As if gloating over our discomfiture in having lost our motive power, a double-bass bullfrog started in to make the night hideous. His favorite singing dias was in the pool right under the bow of the boat. When a stone was thrown in his direction he retreated into deep water, but invariably returned. Late in the night I hit upon the expedient of pouring a pint of 30-cent gasoline on the water. The croaker croaked no more.
In the morning a little tinkering was rewarded by the motor showing signs of renewing operations and we started in high hopes, but after a few hundred rods it was apparent that we were making little speed and we limped into the tiny hamlet of Ernestville where we stopped for supplies and fresh water. Ernestville is a poor shopping center and fresh water and kerosene were about all we could obtain.
Along this stretch of the canal it is paralleled for a considerable distance by the old National Pike, which on this particular morning was thronged by automobile tourists. As they sped by we knew that they would be in Hagerstown in an hour. We wondered if we would reach there in a day. It was apparent now that we must take our crippled motor to a garage and Hagerstown was the nearest point where we could obtain the services of a mechanic skilled in repairing marine engines. To reach Hagerstown from the canal we decided to stop at Williamsport and this was now our goal.