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which walled the lilied creek which my camp overlooked. The sky had cleared, the rain dried off the 
rocks. We brought the provisions across from the southern inlet and made breakfast. We patted our 
bellies, contemplated life and behold it was very good. 
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79 
My summer was uneventful. Such adventures as I had were pleasant variations from routine. I must 
tell one tale from its interest to amateurs of coincidence and philosophers whose favourite subject 
of meditation is "What a small world we live in!" 
To ascend the Hudson in a sailing canoe is not so simple as it sounds. No great effort is required to 
come to grief. It had taken me all I knew to get round a certain rectangular bend against a gusty 
wind of uncertain temper. The river was white with foam, and what with cross currents and sudden 
squalls I had wondered more than once how matters would turn out. In case of capsizing it might 
have been no joke to scramble up the perpendicular cliffs which hemmed in the stream in many 
places. Once or twice, while trying to use my sail, I had just shaved upsetting. The bend once past, 
the breeze had steadied, and I was able to lounge luxuriously in the stern and watch the shores 
stream past. The only question was where to sleep. The hours passed and no sign of human 
habitation. In the end I submitted to fate and spent the night in the open on a stony slope. 
The next day, after lunching gloriously on a convenient islet, I came to Newborough Bay, where the 
river widens out to something like three times its average. There is a town on either bank 
connected by a steam ferry. I was merrily sailing along, when a squall struck the canoe without 
warning. I found myself rushing recklessly through the water, with the spray shooting from beneath 
my bows high into space. I was then aware that I was being driven helpless between the two 
steamers. My sail refused to come down. At infinite risk, I crawled forward and unshipped the mast, 
thus managing to pull up before reaching the point of danger. 
I looked south. The weather threatened to worsen. It might be nasty. I was more than a mile from 
the shore. My best chance was to reach safety before the storm came to its full powers. I therefore 
put the tackle in order, reshipped the mast, and half-hoisted the sail, ready to lower again if things 
got bad. I flew upstream at a terrific pace for over an hour. The threatened tempest passed clear to 
the south. It was now dark and once again I bethought me of a bivouac. Exhausted by my struggle, I 
paddled wearily, the wind having dropped entirely, past a wharf. Having no money to waste on a 
bed --- my two dollars, twenty-five of original capital not having noticeable increased --- I shook my 
head and shouted a genial refusal to a stripling who hailed me from the quay and suggested my 
sleeping in the village. But an 
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older man came forward and offered to let me doss it in a boathouse. I was really all in and decided 
to accept. 
He hailed some boatmen who carried my canoe on shore, while I walked with the kind old captain 
to the boat club. We had settled on where I was to sleep, when in came a man, obviously a 
gentleman and obviously English. He made the same observation about me, though what with my 
inch of beard, deep sunburn and general air of ruffianism. I presented an aspect rarely to be found 
in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. He insisted on taking me to his house for supper and putting me up 
for the night. I gratefully accepted. Five minutes later we had found out that he had at one time 
been a master in King Henry VIII's School in Coventry, and had known my Aunt Annie and her family 
who honoured that town with their residence since their childhood. The next morning after 
breakfast I resumed my journey. He took me in his launch with the canoe in tow as far as 
Poughkeepsie where we parted. 
I promised to write and tell him where my permanent camps was, in the hope that he would allow 
me to share his hospitality by bringing his family to lunch. The sequel has one more amusing