disturbed, he rose to his feet exclaiming, 'Good Lord, sir, where the D-did you come from? You've frightened me almost to death.' He then made some remarks about the danger to a weak heart, and it took the offender some time to pacify his victim.

When we left Bexhill for Penzance en route for Tresco, there was no railway truck in those days long enough to accommodate the canoe, so she was sawn in half. The sawn ends got badly split in transit, and the owner decided to make the Eirene a one-man canoe by cutting two feet out of each half and joining the two butts together. This he managed excellently, though it rather spoilt her lines and her stability, but not her pace. This was her condition when she paced the Rob Roy. Later, on Macgregor's advice, she was fitted with watertight bulkheads, decked with wood, the after deck made longer than the fore, so as to bring the sitter's weight right amidships, and that the weight of his feet might bring her an inch down by the head when not under way. All this, and a properly made and fitted apron made her not only seaworthy and comfortable, but increased her speed. Given good going lines, a man who sits still with his back pressed home on the back board by reason of the thrust of his feet against the stretcher, using his arms alternately as fulcrum and lever, and keeping his canoe on even keel when moving-this is the secret of pace, and also of ease to the paddler.

On looking back, and from my own experience in the next few years, I can see how it was that in the hands of a shipwright, also a Macgregor, I think-a rather tall, spare, and wiry man, longarmed and muscular, who used an adze with wonderful skill-the Eirene became famous in canoe races on the course between Penryn and Falmouth. Of this I shall say more presently.

The mention of this skilled artisan recalls the fact that he and the pater built a funny little punt to be used in boarding the mission yawl, which was moored in the river off Flushing, the town in which we then lived. The punt was nine feet long, with a beam of five feet, and was 'double-ended,' as it is called. I personally had a great deal of fun out of this boat. Hearing of sliding seats then coming into use, but never having seen one, I made one of my own and fitted the punt therewith, and attained some skill in its use, as also in sculling. Our boatman, a Royal Naval pensioner, a big man, and then not as nimble as he once may have been, and further, an A.B. of H.M. Navy of that date, noted for treating the smallest craft like a line-of-battle ship, was not so fortunate with my new

invention. One day he sat down somewhat uneasily on the slider built to fit the proportions of a boy, shipped his sculls and started with a mighty pull. Away shot the slider over the stops, and down went Harris, for that was his name, on his back; his head bumped down on the punt's bow and a nose dive followed. Whatever he may have wished to exclaim about boys and their newfangled contraptions was apparently swallowed up in surprise, and on this occasion' there weren't no words for it.' Fearing, however a reaction, we avoided for the next day or two any reference to the contretemps, and I personally had to set about the restoration of my latest idol.

Our mechanic friend Macgregor took a great fancy to the Eirene, and became in a very short while an expert canoeist. His paddle work was, as his namesake's, beautiful to watch. His powers of endurance were great, and he prepared himself for his first canoe race at the Falmouth regatta, a great event in those days! In dead weight the Eirene was heavier than any of her competitors, but she left them half a mile behind. The event caused much excitement and debate, and the conclusion arrived at was that a man with those arms was bound to win.

The following year a canoe was built which was to wipe the eye of the Eirene, then painted black to hide her many scars and middle joint. The new canoe, built, I think, in Penryn and weighing, it was reported, not more than 30 lbs., was hailed with delight and promised to do wonders. We ourselves, I think, expected our canoe to be beaten, but when on the race day she arrived opposite Flushing, she was leading by half a mile, and later the would-be sprinter gave up the race. The vision of that tiny slip of a thing carrying no way between the strokes of the paddle, while the Eirene skimmed on her way like an arrow, is with me still. The secret of the difference was that in the thirty-pounder the man was sitting abaft the beam and his boat was sucking by the stern' and dragging on his arms. The enterprising gentleman was not in possession of John Mac's tip about the importance of 'trim by the head.' I have no doubt that this observation has long since become an axiom of canoeing knowledge. But I have witnessed the fault of trim by the stern' and its baneful effect on pace and ease many times in later years, and have marvelled at the repeated blunder, which, however, supplies me with an excuse for noticing the point here at some length.

6

About the time of which I am writing, my father, always, I fear,

more prone to spend than to save money, was smitten with a desire to possess a new type of canoe then beginning to be popular and styled the Nautilus, introduced by W. Baden-Powell. In model this craft was more like what is known as the Canadian canoe,' but fitted with watertight bulkheads and decked fore and aft, the deck being more highly domed than that of the Rob Roy. The Nautilus was a roomy and comfortable craft, and would stand a let of rough weather, but being flat-floored and high at the prow, propulsion against a head breeze was hard labour and progress slow. For sailing purposes she was capital, especially when running a point or two free, and many a pleasant hour the writer has spent in this, to him, enchanting sport. The Nautilus was useful in long trips, because there was room in her well for storing quite a considerable amount of food and change of clothing. Her carrying power came into requisition one night in Falmouth Harbour, when my father and two young men were returning from a trip to Truro, each in his own canoe. Somewhere near where the old Ganges was moored in those days, a steam tug with a ketch in tow overtook the trio, one of whom, with more enterprise than forethought, conceived the idea of a cheap tow. Paddling into line behind the tug, the mild youth caught hold of the tow rope, which was a long one, and within easy reach of his position, and I presume steering the canoe with the paddle in his free hand. He had not realised that a tow line does not always remain at the same level, and when the time came round for the next 'surge,' he was suddenly jerked upwards, and in his struggle over went the frail canoe and down came her late occupant in the water. I am perfectly certain that when he rose to the surface, and before striking out to avoid the oncoming ketch, he must have stopped to smooth his middleparted hair, for it was the invariable habit of this sleek young man to do so when emerging from a dive in the sea. A shout of ́man overboard' from the lookout on the ketch brought the tug to a standstill, and from both tug and ketch came forth a torrent of invectives on the head, vitals, and hands, not to say the progenitors, of the hapless youth; such terms as 'no sailor of the Royal N.' would have used. His paddle had gone astray in the dark and could not be found. The tug skipper would see himself in torment before he deviated from his course to oblige a fool, etc. So the 'demned moist, uncomfortable body' was taken on board the Nautilus, and my father had the pleasure of carrying a passenger who could not pull his weight, and towing his canoe in addition for

the next four or five miles, a tough job, witnessing, however, to the utility of the Nautilus.

My father was then chaplain of St. Andrew's Waterside Mission for the port of Falmouth. Our next move was from Falmouth to Talland, and on leaving the former place the Nautilus was sold, and our friend the shipwright became the proud possessor of the Eirene. Talland Bay was not suitable for canoeing, so the new vicar and his son built a four-oar rowing-boat, in which a quartet of two girls and two boys made many a trip to Looe, Polperro, and even Fowey. We all pulled our weight, and that, I venture to say, not without some skill and form. While at Talland I recollect one day seeing in the offing the Great Eastern for the first and last time. She was on her way to Whitehaven to be broken up, I think.

Three years later we found ourselves at Torbay, where the pater became head of the Seamen's Orphan Home and chaplain of missions to seamen. Here we had the run of the 18-ton mission yawl, of a Hans Busk lifeboat presented to the Home, our own four-oar, and, joy of joys, a real Rob Roy canoe. I may be pardoned I hope, if I leave for a short space the subject of the Rob Roy and refer to the Hans Busk. She was a long, rather low boat, with pretty lines, and much lighter in weight than the National Lifeboat type, but had the raised bulkheads fore and aft to make her selfrighting in case of a capsize. There were lockers all round her sides filled with airtight copper canisters to give buoyancy in case she filled. We manned her with a crew of six of the senior boys from the Home, whom we trained in rowing and elementary seamanship. In this craft we visited the ships when in the Bay for the purpose of holding services and distributing literature. Sometimes we visited other places on the coast to attend public meetings organised in the interests of the Home and its finance. A memorable visit was to Exeter, where an important meeting was to be held, and the chaplain thought that the presence of a healthy crew of boys who had faced the perils of the deep would be a practical illustration of the work being done for the orphans of seamen. We started on a Sunday morning late in March in tow of a fishing smack which was to take us to Exmouth Bar. A strong cold north-west breeze was blowing, so that the smack was carrying her small winter mainsail. Some tacking had to be done, and we arrived off Exmouth about 3 P.M., when a terrific squall came down the valley of the Exe. So fierce was the wind that as we hove to until the squall had spent itself, the smack, a deep-keeled stiff craft of 15 tons,

lay over to starboard until the water lapped the little hatchway in the centre of her deck. She lay like a thing stricken and lifeless for five minutes or more, while rigging and halyards became coated with sleet and ice. The storm passed quickly away, and we were able to man the boat, cross the bar, and after a toughish pull reach, in the failing light of a cheerless evening, the first lock of the canal. There, in the well-known little inn, we spent a cosy night, having, until bedtime, been entertained by a voluble host fond of the sound of his own voice and of spinning yarns. In this respect I am bound to say he was well seconded by the pater. The lifeboat having sprung a slight leak, our first morning duty was to bail out iced water. Wasn't it cold! We soon warmed ourselves, however, by acting tow-horse on the side path.

After passing the little town of Topsham, still proud, I hope, of having furnished two ships for Drake's fleet, there is to be seen one of the finest views of Exeter, with its noble cathedral standing out magnificently. Well warmed by our run, we tumbled aboard the boat and rowed into Exeter in style, and, if I remember rightly, had a jolly good lunch. The public meeting at night in our honour was packed, and the chaplain did not miss the opportunity of making capital out of the hardihood of orphan boys who had come to Exeter at great risk through an awful storm that had lost the lives of 500 men in the foundering of the Eurydice off the Wight, while we lay off Exmouth Bar, in the same squall, which, owing to its destructive work, had cast a gloom over the whole land. I well recollect the sadness of the faces of the people of Exeter when we arrived, and where we heard for the first time the sad news of the fate of the gallant ship and her crew. Our return voyage to Brixham was uneventful. After leaving the canal we set the lugsail, and with a smart breeze on the quarter reached home in excellent time.

To return to canoeing. As there were no canoe races at either the Torquay or Brixham Regattas that I can recollect, I had no opportunity of trying the speed of the Rob Roy against sister crafts. But there is an episode that may be worth mentioning. I had to deliver a letter to an owner of one of the yachts in Torquay harbour. It was a fine morning and the bay was calm. Feeling fit, and with muscles in good trim, I determined on a time race on my own. The distance from Brixham to Torquay is nearly five miles. I was forty-one minutes going over, and returned in forty. Whether this is fast as canoes go or not I do not know, as I have never timed