Three Men in A Boat by Jerome K. Jerome

“It’s only two days more,” said Harris, “and we are young and strong.  We may get over it all right, after all.”

At about four o’clock we began to discuss our arrangements for the evening.  We were a little past Goring then, and we decided to paddle on to Pangbourne, and put up there for the night.

“Another jolly evening!” murmured George.

We sat and mused on the prospect.  We should be in at Pangbourne by five.  We should finish dinner at, say, half-past six.  After that we could walk about the village in the pouring rain until bed-time; or we could sit in a dimly-lit bar-parlour and read the almanac.

“Why, the Alhambra would be almost more lively,” said Harris, venturing his head outside the cover for a moment and taking a survey of the sky.

“With a little supper at the — [311] to follow,” I added, half unconsciously.

“Yes it’s almost a pity we’ve made up our minds to stick to this boat,” answered Harris; and then there was silence for a while.

“If we hadn’t made up our minds to contract our certain deaths in this bally old coffin,” observed George, casting a glance of intense malevolence over the boat, “it might be worth while to mention that there’s a train leaves Pangbourne, I know, soon after five, which would just land us in town in comfortable time to get a chop, and then go on to the place you mentioned afterwards.”

Nobody spoke.  We looked at one another, and each one seemed to see his own mean and guilty thoughts reflected in the faces of the others.  In silence, we dragged out and overhauled the Gladstone.  We looked up the river and down the river; not a soul was in sight!

Twenty minutes later, three figures, followed by a shamed-looking dog, might have been seen creeping stealthily from the boat-house at the “Swan” towards the railway station, dressed in the following neither neat nor gaudy costume:

Black leather shoes, dirty; suit of boating flannels, very dirty; brown felt hat, much battered; mackintosh, very wet; umbrella.

We had deceived the boatman at Pangbourne.  We had not had the face to tell him that we were running away from the rain.  We had left the boat, and all it contained, in his charge, with instructions that it was to be ready for us at nine the next morning.  If, we said—if anything unforeseen should happen, preventing our return, we would write to him.