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 rein for the first time. Only strenuous use of the paddle as a steering oar kept the proud little boat in the channel. In this way we moved stupidly into Oldtown. An hour and a half was required to go less than three miles.
On reaching the lock at Oldtown it was apparent that there would not be room between the gates to accommodate both the canal boat and "Sometub," and the skipper cast us off in a fashion so uncermonious that we floated in his wake feeling like unbidden guests at a feast. The big freight boat glided away, leaving us on the wrong side of the gate. You know how sometimes you turn and drive away the homeless dog that sheepishly follows you down the street? Well, we felt placed in the situation of the homeless dog.
It was the first time in my life that I experienced a sincere desire to embrace the teachings of anarchy. After the canal boat had started on its way Mr. Carter, the lockmaster, returned to inquire into our wants.
"What are you going to do with us?" I asked him.
"Lock you through," he answered. "Give me your line and I'll tow you in. Then you can tie up over there and stop at my house all night. My wife will have a nice hot supper for you. The gentleman who runs the store up on the hill has an automobile and knows a lot about gas engines. I know he'll be delighted to fix up your machine."
It was hard to believe that he meant what he said. He had enunciated that kind of hospitality which I had thought no longer existed except in books that sell at $1.08. My wife, however, did not share my skepticism. Here was good old-fashioned southern hospitality and she emphasized the fact with some pride that we were now well over the Mason & Dixon line and might expect cordiality to be something more than a meaningless phrase. She rushed across the towpath to chat with the lockmaster's wife and daughters while Mr. Carter towed "Sometub" through the lock and found a suitable place to tie up on the berm bank of the short level.