through a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above,
and after a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker
luncheon-basket.

'Shove that under your feet,' he observed to the Mole, as he passed it
down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls
again.

'What's inside it?' asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.

'There's cold chicken inside it,' replied the Rat briefly;
'coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssan
dwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater----'

'O stop, stop,' cried the Mole in ecstacies: 'This is too much!'

'Do you really think so?' enquired the Rat seriously. 'It's only what
I always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are
always telling me that I'm a mean beast and cut it VERY fine!'

The Mole never heard a word he was saying. Absorbed in the new life
he was entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the
scents and the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water
and dreamed long waking dreams. The Water Rat, like the good little
fellow he was, sculled steadily on and forebore to disturb him.

'I like your clothes awfully, old chap,' he remarked after some half
an hour or so had passed. 'I'm going to get a black velvet
smoking-suit myself some day, as soon as I can afford it.'