With many thanks we declined the hospitality of the whole-souled lockmaster and his family and cooked our dinner in a drizzling rain and "tinkered" on the motor until after midnight. The knowledge that we were among friends enabled us to make ourselves comfortable for the night regardless of the weather. In the morning we were awakened by a call from Mr. Carter. He came to give me "a lift" with the motor. As a last forlorn hope I gave the flywheel a twirl--and it went! We made all haste to depart and before the sun had reached the mountain tops we were under way. With good behavior on the part of the motor "Sometub" is the spryest young boat you ever saw, and on this Tuesday, July 18th, we made our record run. The sky was cloudless and out in the meadows we watched farmers and harvest hands sweltering in the broiling sun, but in the shade of the stately trees that form an arch over the canal in this region we enjoyed a delightful atmosphere. Steep cliffs enclose the north bank of the canal and over these in luxuriant profusion were seemingly endless brambles of blackberry vines burdened with luscious ripe fruit. For luncheon we skirted the cliffs and picked a dish of berries which with crackers and tea enabled us to have a unique and delicious repast without tying up the boat. Our logbook for this day contains nevertheless many entries of enforced stops. Wild grass growing up in the bottom of the canal checked us frequently and necessitated removing long coils that choked the propeller. Shortly after noon we reached the tunnel which carries the waters of the canal for seven-eighths of a mile under one of the lofty ridges of the Alleghanies. The channel is barely wide enough to allow the passage of a single craft and we knew that we must hold the right of way or back out in case we should meet a canal boat. The tunnel has no lights and when you get into its depths it is a veritable black hole in the ground. Fixing our red and green running lights we started bravely in, but after going a dozen yards we struck windrows of grass and weeds which made it impossible for our propeller to turn. There was but one thing to do, and I climbed out on the narrow shelf of a towpath and took the end of the line while my better, and on this occasion, less nervous half, caught up the paddle and steered. The towpath in the tunnel is intended only for mules. In many places are mountain springs whose icy waters trickle down through the old brick walls and transform the towpath into soft mire that is knee deep. It was the longest seven furlongs I ever trod and I came out of the tunnel with a feeling of profound respect for the canal boat mule.