some, varnished little boats, but soon were recalled to their work, and we were left to go on packing the canoes.
The lock-keeper, a gaunt, badly-dressed white man, sauntered down from his lock to take a look at the strange boats. He was very obviously chewing tobacco, and he spoke slowly and nasally.
Before the loading was half done, our first and almost our last misfortune occurred. Mr. Moseley's canoe, with timbers warped from a winter's storage, was leaking like a sieve. Out must come the packages again—pork, blankets, camera, ammunition, etc.
"What shall we do now?"
"Hire a mule to tow us, and keep bailing the canoe till the wood swells and stops the leak."
"Mr. Lockman," we asked, "can you let us have a mule?"
"Yes," very slowly, and looking at the boats, not at us. "I have a mule; but them boats won't tow."
"But we know better. They will tow. Can we have the mule?"
"Them boats won't tow," still more slowly.
"Can we have the mule?" impatiently.
"Not to tow them boats. They won't tow, I tell ye."
