TRYING OUT A MOTOR CANOE 



The Story of an Experiment Which, Though Having 

 Its Discouragements, Brought Its Reward 



BY GEORGE GARLING 



HE . Fayette was a 

 seventeen-foot canvas- 

 covered canoe, built in 

 Maine by a man of in- 

 finite judgment in the 

 matter of model and 

 material. For three 

 years she was my con- 

 stant companion on the waters of the Cob- 

 bosseecontee, Maranaccok and Annibesi- 

 cook. All my spare time in summer I had 

 spent with her. She had poked her dainty 

 nose . into almost every pine-shadowed 

 cove and inlet on those lakes, inquisitively 

 searching for pickerel. She had glided 

 over the open stretches of deep water with 

 a hundred yards of trolling line in her wake, 

 her stern swinging easily to the least pres- 

 sure on the line. She had rubbed with 

 gentle and friendly touch against every 

 rock in the Juggernaut, the Jockmeyaw 

 and the Cobbosseecontee streams. She 

 had ridden scores of miles in hay-racks, or 

 on the sturdy shoulders of a chum and my- 

 self. For the past five seasons she had been 

 coquetting with the waters of Eastern Massa- 

 chusetts — on the Concord and Merrimac 

 rivers — and the numerous ponds in the 

 neighborhood. During all this period she 

 had but two new dresses — retaining the 

 same cut and the same color, a bright and 

 cheerful scarlet. She would not be the 

 Fayette to me were she decked in any 

 other garb. 



With the coming of spring a year ago, I 

 grew ambitious for a motor boat. Perhaps 

 the ambition was aroused by an advertise- 

 ment in a certain magazine of a marine 

 motor, rated at "one-horse-power, water- 

 cooled and jump spark." I pictured to 

 myself the Fayette (my loyalty to her 

 was inextinguishable) with the water- 

 cooled cylinder and the jump-spark, and a 

 dinky little propeller at her stern. So I 

 wrote to the manufacturers, who quoted the 



price at $45 list, and %$& net — as if I cared 

 for the list! — and referred me to a Boston 

 agent. I saw the agent and the engine 

 and was conquered by both. 



It was the middle of March when the 

 engine arrived, and I used to sit by its 

 side in the cellar and plan on installing it 

 in the canoe. I frequently took it out into 

 the yard after supper and ran it, so as to 

 get thoroughly acquainted with its action. 

 After a little I noticed that the neighbors 

 were not so cordial to me as formerly, and 

 one evening Crosman, who lives next door, 

 banged his window up and said things 

 about the motor which surprised me. I 

 gathered that he wanted to get his baby to 

 sleep. 



But my plans were complete, and the 

 Fayette and her engine were carefully 

 loaded into an express wagon and carried 

 to Smith, the boat builder. (His name 

 was not Smith, but, as this is not an adver- 

 tising story, we'll call him Smith.) He had 

 a reputation for well-designed and well- 

 built boats, and after criticising my draw- 

 ings and telling me that I might get four 

 miles an hour (I was figuring on seven, at 

 least), providing the boat didn't shake 

 apart before the first hour was up, he 

 agreed to do the work — promising to start 

 it on Monday morning. A week later I 

 went to his shop and found the canoe un- 

 touched, where I had left it. The foreman 

 blamed Smith, who was away, for the neg- 

 lect, and said they were going right at the 

 job on Monday morning. 



The next Saturday the canoe was still on 

 the rack and Smith blamed his foreman, 

 who was away. He also mentioned that 

 they would start work on Monday morning. 



On the next Saturday both men were in 

 the shop, but nothing had been done to the 

 Fayette. They promised to commence on 

 Monday morning! 



Another Saturday came and I found my 



