"Sometub" narrowly escaped being christened "Kitchen Maid." It is literally a kitchen-made craft, that is, it was put together in the kitchen after its knockdown frame was received from a Michigan boatbuilder. When culinary activities in the aforesaid kitchen were partially suspended it afforded an ideal boatyard, but the fact that a kitchen would be put to such extraordinary use there was attracted thither a constant line of spectators, the majority of whom had as little nautical knowledge as the builders. Propped up on a stepladder the bony frame of the future boat looked like one of those uncanny paleontological specimens in the Carnegie museum, and drew from the visitors a flow of remarks entirely irrelevant to boatbuilding. Nearly everyone doubted that the thing would be made to float, but a few who were too polite to express their views went to the opposite extreme and indulged in a line of flattery that was more irritating than the skeptcism of the doubting Thomases.

"Well, that's some tub!" The oft repeated phrase trickled away somewhere into the damaged wall paper of the kitchen or into the big paint spot that ruined the linoleum, and when the time came to name the boat the words came back sufficiently anglicized and properly compounded—"Sometub." And it stuck!

"Sometub" has been laughed at by hundreds of persons who will never know how it received its name. It looks less tub-like than the majority of motorboats. The Brooks Manufacturing Company up in Saginaw, from whom I bought the knockdown frame, doubtless would object to the innuendo suggesting tubbiness because they boast of it as one of their latest and most graceful models—a semi-V bottom shape which is especially noted both for speed and seaworthiness. And it is all they claim for it, and more, too!

"Sometub" is 15 feet long by 43 inches on the beam. We took liberties with the Brooks plan by constructing a bulkhead which enclosed five feet of the bow. This left a 10-foot cockpit, over which was erected a portable canopy top. Curtains that hung on the sides of the canopy made a snug cabin 10 × 3½ feet. For motive power we use an Evinrude motor. By the way, it is one of those coffee mill affairs that you screw on the stern of a skiff or rowboat. "Sometub" was designed for this very sort of equipment and the theory worked out beautifully—until the motor went wrong. And there lies the key to all the villainy that will be divulged in this plain tale of the cruise of "Sometub" from Oakmont to Washington.

On account of the 150-mile portage from Pittsburgh to Cumberland, Md., it is advisable to allow seven days from the time of your departure on the Allegheny until your expected sailing from the other terminal of the portage. In these seven days you will make the run down to the Pittsburgh Baltimore & Ohio freight station at Water street, pack your engine and duffle, bail out the boat, cart it to the Cumberland local freight car, see it stowed away and spend four days hoping that it will arrive in Cumberland before you and your cargo. Of course, your hopes will be blasted, but to hope is human. Anyhow, you might as well realize at the outset that cross-country cruising is to be an intensely human experience.

There was no ceremony when we backed out of a stall at the Oakmont Boat Club in the late afternoon of the 9th of last July and picked our way between the bathers, canoes and rowboats that clustered there. Even if there had been occasion for ceremony, the thought that we had to reach the Aspinwall lock before 6 o'clock or wait another hour, "on the hour," caused us to lay a course straight for Nine-mile Island. With its balky Evinrude five miles an hour is "Sometub's" best speed. Past colonies of summer camps on the O'Hara township bank of the Allegheny we continued our way hearing a giggle now and then as a maid in a canoe or on shore caught sight of the aluminum letters on our bow and spelled out "S-o-m-e-t-u-b." The tables were turned when we passed the "Ye Gauds" camp. Phonetic spelling is epidemic among river campers. Their's is not simplified, but rather perplexified spelling.

For a mile above Aspinwall dam the Allegheny in breezy weather has all the choppiness of a landlocked lake and affords the exhileration of boating that is enjoyed on a much larger body of water. Here we witnessed a scene that was in strange contrast with the gayety farther up the river. Below the mouth of Squaw Run a group of terrifed children stood on the bank intently watching a skiff which was being rowed slowly down stream. At the oars was a youth vainly trying to look brave while at the stern a grizzled riverman dragged a grappling iron. It was the sequel to an old story. They were searching for the body of a boy who had been drowned an hour before while trying to exchange seats in a canoe.

To make the Aspinwall lock on schedule time is always cause for joy by the humble owner of a motorboat. If he is not there "on the hour" he must wait until another 60 minutes have elapsed before the opening of the gates, unless a towboat should happen along. The same rule is in force at Lock No. 1 at Herr's Island. Here we arrived "in between times," but the gates were open and we started in. A lock tender caught sight of "Sometub" and waved frantically for us to get out and tie up alongside a barge which lay near the shore. Astern was the towboat Crucible making her way into the lock with a steel boat in tow. We followed the locktender's directions, but when the big craft approached and the pilot had sized us up, he stepped out on the hurricane deck and pointed a place for us to tie in the lock. When our motor began to sputter and he saw the name of the boat he laughed heartily and seemed to share our delight in getting into the lock chamber ahead of the Crucible. We soon chugged out and 15 minutes later rounded the Point, anointing "Sometub" for the first time with the waters of the Ohio. Running up the Monongahela in the twilight we moored at the motorboat landing at the foot of Smithfield street. Here the boat was taken from the water and shipped to Cumberland.

I have said that we eased our conscience by following the patriotic footsteps of George Washington. We struck the sacred trail in the first hour of our cruise when, running down the Allegheny we scudded under the decrepit Forty-third street bridge and past the historic point that once was separated from the mainland and was known as Wainwright's Island. From this point until the end of the journey we were constantly on ground intimately associated with the life of Washington.

Indeed if it had not been for the enterprise of Washington the cruise never would have been possible; if it had not been for Washington the Chesapeake and Ohio canal would not have been projected, and without this pioneer waterway the valley of the upper Potomac would be a solitary wilderness. The Baltimore and Ohio railroad only followed its aquatic pacemaker and was pushed westward over the identical route Washington had laid out for his canal to connect the waters of the Potomac with those of the tributaries of the Ohio, the eastern link of the intercontinental route which he dreamed would some day connect the Atlantic seaboard with the great lakes, and the Mississippi valley. The Lake Erie and Ohio river ship canal is but a revival of Washington's gigantic project. "The Father of His Country" was a century and a half ahead of the times in his comprehension of the transportation problem.

The history of the construction of this canal is a commercial romance replete with many a fascinating chapter involving personal peril, adventures, triumphs, failures and political intrigue; for four bloody years during the Civil war its right of way was held alternately by the Union and the Confederate armies, and many a grim tragedy was enacted there; today it is one of the few places in the country where the oldtime canal boat is to be seen in practical operation.

But the story of the canal will come further along. It is essential in the narrative of the initial cruise of "Sometub" because its towpath, worn by 20 successive progenies of mules, is the path that paradoxically leads far, far away from the beaten path of modern travel.

On Saturday evening, July 15th, we reached Cumberland. Rain was falling but this did not deter us from launching "Sometub" in the waters of the canal. We had made up our minds that rain must be disregarded—and subsequent experience proved that this step toward resignation to the elements was well taken. Before the voyage was three days old we realized that Jupiter Pluvius was a stowaway with us. For 100 miles we were the harbingers of showers, the advance agents of thunder, lightning, rain and cloudbursts.

We had hoped to leave Cumberland before sunset and tie up for the night far from the noise of the city, but the best we could do between showers was to put everything in shipshape and wait for the dawn. Rain pattered down all night long and came in repeated gusts during the day. In the meantime we sat on the hospitable porch of a retired canal boat skipper and listened to his reminiscences of the "good old days." Our delay just now was due to our failure to procure our waybill, a document which gave us the right of way through the locks from Cumberland to Georgetown. In this document "Sometub" was put down as a motor-propelled craft of one ton net register and stipulated that it should proceed at a speed not exceeding four miles an hour. The waybill cost $5.10.

Late in the afternoon we were informed that a deputy collector of the port, who lived "down the canal beyond the bridge," would hand us our waybill as we passed. Simultaneously with this good news the rain ceased and the sun came out in radiant glory. In two minutes we were away and broke the speed limit with the impunity of a motor driver who knows that if he does not exceed the legal speed his machine will stop altogether. We made a dash for the waybill. "Pshaw!" exclaimed the collector. "It's too bad I didn't know the name of your boat. I just wrote 'launch.' If I had known it had a name like that I would have put it down, sure."

"What are the rules?" we asked him.

"Keep to the left—always—that's all. Tie up on the berm side (to the left) and don't let yourself get dragged into the flume by the current at the locks." We thanked him and started again. We rounded the big bend of the Potomac, turning to the eastward where the blue horizon of the mountains melted into the blue-gray mists and clouds of the weeping sky. In what seemed an increditably short time we had left the city behind and glided along the vine-fringed, ribbon-like pool that wound its way into sequestered solitudes among the towering hills. Here and there a farmhouse was visible in the distance on the uplands and occasionally a lonely cabin squatted among the willows and dank weeds that grew in the marshy places, but for the greater part of our run on this level we hugged close to the hillside or proceeded through courses of broad meadows.

It was the first time an outboard motor cruiser had been seen on the canal, and for that matter in the Potomac valley, and "Sometub" attracted much attention among the country folk and the crews of the boats. We passed our first canal boat beyond South Cumberland at a point where the channel was scarcely 30 feet wide and narrowly escaped rasping off our propeller on a ledge of rocks that formed the berm bank, our danger being due to the provokingly deliberate action of the steersman on the big mule-drawn hulk. After that we waited for sufficient leeway before attempting to pass canal boats in narrow channels.

At sunset a whitewashed log house came into view and as we approached we recognized the huge arms of the lock gates. Beyond the locktender's cabin we saw the roofs of the houses in the little village of North Branch, Md. Here was our first lock, the first of the 75 in 184 miles on the canal between Cumberland and Georgetown. We were curious to know how "Sometub" would behave in an old-fashioned lock with leaky gates and were anxious to push on to the tunnel some 30 miles east of Cumberland where the canal for nearly a mile of its course passes underneath one of 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.

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.