[Illustration:  Along the shore of Chuckatuck creek.]

A low headland prevented our getting a good view up the stream until Gadabout swung into the middle of it.  We seemed to be entering a little lake bordered by tree-covered hills.  At the far end of the blue basin was a break and a gleam of lighter water to show that this was not really a lake but a stream.  There it made the last of its many turnings and spread its waters in this beautiful harbour before losing them in the James.

On the hills to our right, houses showed among the trees, some with the ever-pleasing white-pillared porticoes; and on the hills to our left was a village that straggled down the slope to the wharf as if coming to greet the strangers.  In this little harbour was quite a fleet, mostly fishing craft, and all bowing politely on the swell of the tide.

There was such diversity of opinion among our self-constituted pilots as to the best place for us to drop anchor, that the Commodore turned a deaf ear to them all and attempted to run alongside a schooner to make inquiries.  She was a good sized craft, and it did not seem as if he could miss her.  He claimed that he did not.  He explained that when we got up there, our ropes fell short and we drifted helplessly past because the blundering captain of the schooner had anchored her too far away from us.

Kindly overlooking this error of a fellow navigator, the Commodore patiently spent considerable of the beautiful summer evening in getting Gadabout turned around; and then again bore down upon the schooner.  This time her being in the wrong place did not seem to matter; for we reached her all right, and there probably was no place along that side where we did not remove more or less paint.  The captain of the schooner gave us the needed information about the harbour; our lines were cast off, and the houseboat was soon anchored in a snug berth for the night.

Then, sitting upon our canopied upper deck, enjoying the last of our city melons cooled with the last of our city ice, we looked out over what we supposed was but the first of many such beautiful creek-harbour scenes to be found along the river.  We did not know that there was to be no other like Chuckatuck.

After a while, a small steamer came in from the James, a boat plying regularly between Norfolk and landings along this creek.

It was just the kind of steamer, any one would say, to be running on the Chuckatuck—­a fat, wheezy side-wheeler that came up to its landing near us with three hearty whistles and such a jovial puffing as seemed to say, “Now, I’m certainly mighty glad to get back again to you all.”  Just the sort of steamer that wouldn’t mind a bit if the pretty girls were “a right smart time” kissing goodbye; or if the Colonel had to finish his best story; or if old Maria had to “study a spell” because she had “done forgot” what Miss Clarissa wanted the steward to bring from the city next day.