Now, Gadabout began to sidle toward the port bank of the river as our next harbour, Chippoak Creek, was on that side.  Here the shore grew steep; and at one point high up we caught glimpses of the little village of Claremont.  At its pier lay a three-masted schooner and several barges and smaller boats.  Along the water’s edge were mills, their steam and smoke drifting lazily across the face of the bluffs.

On a little farther, we came to the mouth of Chippoak Creek with the bluffs of Claremont on one hand, the sweeping, wooded shores of Brandon on the other, and, in between, a beautiful expanse of water, wide enough for a river and possibly deep enough for a heavy dew.  We scurried for chart and sounding-pole.  Following the narrow, crooked channel indicated on the chart, we worked our way well into the mouth of the stream and cast anchor near a point of woods.  From the chart we could tell that somewhere beyond that forest wall, over near the bank of the river, was the old manor-house that we had come chiefly to see—­Brandon, one of America’s most noted colonial homes.

Next morning we were ready for a visit to Brandon.  But first, we had to let the sailor make a foraging trip to the village.  One of the troubles about living in a home that wanders on the waters, is that each time you change anchorage you must hunt up new places for getting things and getting things done.

While it is charming to drop anchor every now and then in a snug, new harbour, where Nature, as she tucks you in with woodland green, has smiles and graces that you never saw before, yet the houseboater soon learns that each delightful, new-found pocket in the watery world means necessity for several other new-found things.  There must be a new-found washerwoman, and new-found somebodies who can supply meats, eggs, vegetables, ice, milk, and water—­the last two separate if possible.  True, the little harbour is beautiful; but as you lie there day after day watching waving trees and rippling water, the soiled-clothes bags are growing fatter; and then too, even in the midst of beauty, one wearies of a life fed wholly out of tin cans.

[Illustration:  Entrance to Chippoak creek.]

[Illustration:  Cove in Chippoak creek.]

Henry was a good forager; and we were confident, as his strong strokes carried him from the houseboat shoreward, that he would soon put us in touch with all the necessary sources of supply, so that in the afternoon we could make our visit to the old manor-house.  And he did not fail us.  His little boat came back well loaded, and he bore the welcome news that “Sally” (whoever she might be) would take the washing.