The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1920-03-18

l&IZgI been drowned and this story
would not have been written. And that
would have been all right too.
When the four of us landed at Isle La
Motto, which is in Vermont, not far from
the Canada line, it had been blowing hard
for forty-eight hours straight down the lake.
To my somewhat timid eye the middle of
Lake Champlain looked good place to stay
away from. Unfortunately there were two
sailors in the party. Did you ever notice
what bad judgment sailors have in the mat
ter of wind?
However, there it was We had the
lake, we had the wind-plenty of it-and
over on the New York shore we were as
sured that there were plenty of birds wait
ing to be shot. expressed my willingness
to let them wait till their patience wore out,
but l was outvoted, although thought
detected friendly CLEAN in Guys eye. The
CLEAN passed and we instituted search for
the sails.
The boat belongs to Carroll, who is
careful young man of the sort who keeps
everything in the place where it should be-
and where no one else can find it. We
searched and searched and my spirits rose.
Then came gurgle of success from Arch.
He had found the sail in the bottom of a
barrel under a pile of discarded decoys.
Gloom in my soul, succeeded by sunshine at
the report that it was only the jib.
That's enough from Arch. 1--WE can
rig it for stormsail on the main halyards
and sail close enough to make the point"
I thought I saw loophole. "How
about coming back? We can never head up
far enough to make the island against this
gale" Again was the closure applied and
vote taken on strictly party lines. l forget
what the arguments were, but they were to
the general effect that the wind might change
or we might drown on the way over or the
shooting might be so good, we might not
want to come back at all. At any rate the
general tenor of them was that we didn't
have to come back till after we got over, so
why worry.
felt my doom approaching and re-
signed myself to watery grave as l always
do when l 60 sailing.
This was the outfit: one small sailboat,
cutter design and sloop rig-with the jib
hoisted on the main halyards; one -Aatbot-
toned rowboat of ancient lineage and cores
ponding weight to be towed behind; four
men with full equipment of guns, hip boots,
ammunition, and decoys. We were off. At
least we thought we were off. After three
tries we were still wrestling with the pro-
blem of getting clear of an almost leeshore
in a sailboat that wouldn't sail within sew
eral degrees of broad reach, towing soggy
rowboat that was willing to do almost any,
thing in the world except tow.
Tommy who is the original Citizen
Fixit, solved the difficulty and we finally
got clear with Guy, Arch, and me in the
Zaza, as the temperamental sailboat was
named, and Tommy towing gleefully in the
sullen rowboat. In vain we besought him to
come aboard He was happy where he was.
1t wasn't so bad for the first hundred
yards or so. A long point above gave us a
bit of lee and was almost reconciled to
life when we began to hit the big combers
that were riding down the middle of the
lake. And they were big. I can be cheer
full about it now, but / couldn't then. All
things are relative and the Mauretania
never struck anything bigger in January
blow in the Western Ocean than the poor
little Zaza kicked into that day on Lake
Champlain.
Fortunately the wind was steady and
there was nothing for it but to hold her as
close as possible for the point on the New
York shore that we could see through the
spindrift and let her run. The farther we
went the worse it became. The gale picked
the tops off those waves and flung them
aboard bodily-not spray but water, wet and
exceeding cold.
That was when / thanked God for the
loss Of the mainsail. She couldn't have car