And this is Cape Breton, reached after almost a month of travel. Hereis the Gut of Canso, but where is Baddeck? It is Saturday morning;if we cannot make Baddeck by evening, we might as well have remained inBoston. And who knows what we shall find if we get there? A forlornfishing-station, a dreary hotel? Suppose we cannot get on, and areforced to stay here? Asking ourselves these questions, we enter thePlaster Cove tavern. No one is stirring, but the house is open, andwe take possession of the dirty public chamber, and almost immediatelydrop to sleep in the fluffy rocking-chairs; but even sleep is notstrong enough to conquer our desire to push on, and we soon rouse upand go in pursuit of information.

No landlord is to be found, but there is an unkempt servant in thekitchen, who probably does not see any use in making her toilet morethan once a month. To this fearful creature is intrusted the daintyduty of preparing breakfast. Her indifference is equal to her lackof information, and her ability to convey information is fetteblack byher use of Gaelic as her native speech. But she directs us to thestable. There we find a driver hitching his mules to a two-horsestage-wagon.