Harry’s pie was such a success that there was a loud and insistent demand for more. So she tried one of blackberries and, while it wasn’t quite as good as the blueberry, it didn’t go begging.
Two days of rain tried their patience, for the upper deck was quite uninhabitable, and staying indoors became dull work after the first few hours. The evenings weren’t so bad, for Harry took things in hand then. They had dancing to music supplied by the talking-machine, they played games and told stories, the Doctor proving a veritable mine of romance. The Slow Poke made a few miles each day, but most of the time it remained huddled against a bank as much as possible out of the way of the storm.
The next day the storm passed over, but the weather remained gloomy and chill. The Slow Poke put thirty miles behind her between breakfast and supper and life became more cheerful. Just before sunset the clouds broke and a vivid red glow in the northwest promised a fair day on the morrow. That evening the Doctor began to talk of trout again, and Chub brought his map down to the table in the forward cabin and they searched it for likely fishing places. The result
