A heartless motor, however, robbed the "heart of Maryland" of much of its heartsomeness--for us. Leaving Woodmont about the middle of the forenoon on Wednesday, July 19, we ran past the ancient settlement of Sir John's Run, proceeded on under the shadow of Round Mountain, in Maryland, and picturesque Lover's Leap, in West Virginia, and glided into the prosperous looking town of Hancock shortly after 2 o'clock. Hancock gained fame in the winter of 1861-62 when Stonewall Jackson, from the hills south of the Potomac, deigned to throw a few shells into this Maryland village. It was not a sanguinary battle, but at that early period in the war it was considered a bold thing for the Confederate leader to do, and for the time being disturbed the "alls-quiet-along-the-Potomac" that had become stereotyped in the reports of the military situation farther down the stream. At Hancock a short spur of the Baltimore and Ohio runs up to Berkley Springs, a watering place that boasts of patronage by Virginia aristocrats back in George Washington's time. Resolved that we would forego the luxury of luncheon on board, we tied up under the highway bridge, left "Sometub" in charge of the toll-keeper and strolled into town. At the hotel we were too late for dinner and were told that the dining room would not be open for the service of supper until 6 o'clock. In desperation we sought a restaurant--and in two minutes regretted that we had not prepared our own luncheon on the boat. [Illustration: 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.