In this way we made nine miles, and pulled up for the night a little below Day's Lock.
I cannot honestly say that we had a merry evening.

The rain poured down with quiet persistency.

Everything in the boat was damp and clammy.
Supper was not a success.

Cold veal pie, when you don't feel hungry, is apt to cloy.

I felt I wanted whitebait and a cutlet; Harris babbled of soles and white-sauce, and passed the remains of his pie to Montmorency, who declined it, and, apparently insulted by the offer, went and sat over at the other end of the boat by himself.
George requested that we would not talk about these things, at all events until he had finished his cold boiled beef without mustard.
We played penny nap after supper.