He thought that when he had got a little more into the tune, and could throw more "abandon," as it were, into the rendering, it might not seem so sad.

The feeling of the majority, however, was opposed to the experiment.
There being nothing else to do, we went to bed--that is, we undressed ourselves, and tossed about at the bottom of the boat for some three or four hours.

After which, we managed to get some fitful slumber until five a.m., when we all got up and had breakfast.
The second day was exactly like the first.

The rain continued to pour down, and we sat, wrapped up in our mackintoshes, underneath the canvas, and drifted slowly down.
One of us--I forget which one now, but I rather think it was myself--made a few feeble attempts during the course of the morning to work up the old gipsy foolishness about being children of Nature and enjoying the wet; but it did not go down well at all.

That-- "I care not for the rain, not I!" was so painfully evident, as expressing the sentiments of each of us, that to sing it seemed unnecessary.
On one point we were all agreed, and that was that, come what might, we would go through with this job to the bitter end.