Halliford and Shepperton are inconspicuous river villages, scarcely remarkable except that Shepperton boasts a grave adorned with a poem, which prompted my concern that Harris might wish to linger and pay his respects. As we approached the landing-stage, I discreetly nudged Harris's cap into the water, triggering a commotion that redirected his attention away from his interest in grave sites.

Upon reaching Weybridge, the convergence of the Wey—a delightful stream I've often contemplated exploring—and the Bourne and Basingstoke Canal into the Thames was evident. The lock lay directly before us, and our arrival coincided with George's blazer being caught on a lock gate, with George himself entangled inside. Montmorency barked furiously, Harris shouted, George waved his hat while calling out, and all chaos ensued. The lock-keeper hastily emerged with a drag-net, fearing someone had fallen into the water, only to discover the harmless mischief of George trapped on a gate.

We seized the opportunity to engage George, despite his reluctance. After all, he had explained he was fatigued from his strenuous City life. Harris, whose empathy was as muted as a desert breeze, remained unmoved by George's explanation.
