We traveled some ways, passing briefly over a small stream known locally as Tinkers Creek. It was as muddy as it was nondescript, a dark trickle which cut its way through the surrounding green forest.
At last, we came upon another lock, which Rosemary told me was the thirty-eighth on the canal. A building, two stories with a pair of gabled roofs, sat alongside it. A number of men seemed to be lounging on its porch, but there was no boat ahead of us.
“A locktender's house?” I inquired.
“Hell’s Half Acre.” Rosemary glared at the humble structure as we drew nearer. “The rottenest tavern on the whole canal.”
As we slipped into the lock, I looked again at the men. Closer now, I could see their faces were thin and sunken, and their cheeks a reddish hue. Their clothes hung about them like feed-sacks, oversized and threadbare. They stared at the good captain with gazes as sharp as daggers. Not a one stirred from his business, as our crew leapt upon the banks and hurried to man the lock gates.
"After the last brawl, they don't dare mess with the Captain." Mr. Garfield remarked, as he leapt over the side holding a line.
I could hardly imagine the delicate Rosemary engaged in fighting, yet the thought of brawling with a enraged pony gave me pause. It would, I supposed, take but one hoof to the midsection to amend ones poor manners.
A cockerel screamed, and I perceived a rude enclosure in which two chickens were circling one another. Two men were arguing with one another, and they seemed as intent as their fowl champions on bloodshed. My stomach turned at the uncouth site, and I turned my head.
“I hate that place.” Rosemary spat, as the crew jumped back aboard and the Sylph pulled away.
I nodded in agreement. “I can see why.”