We sat up until twenty minutes past two, talking about that house.
We ceased to call it a boat at about a quarter of eleven.

The next day I "took" the boat and paid a month's rent in advance.
Three days afterward we moved into it.

We had not much to move, which was a comfort, looking at it from
one point of view. A carpenter had put up two partitions in it
which made three rooms--a kitchen, a dining-room and a very long
bedroom, which was to be cut up into a parlor, study, spare-room,
etc., as soon as circumstances should allow, or my salary should be
raised. Originally, all the doors and windows were in the roof, so
to speak, but our landlord allowed us to make as many windows to
the side of the boat as we pleased, provided we gave him the wood
we cut out. It saved him trouble, he said, but I did not
understand him at the time. Accordingly, the carpenter made
several windows for us, and put in sashes, which opened on hinges
like the hasp of a trunk. Our furniture did not amount to much, at
first. The very thought of living in this independent, romantic
way was so delightful, Euphemia said, that furniture seemed a mere
secondary matter.

We were obliged indeed to give up the idea of following the plan
detailed in our book, because we hadn't the sum upon which the
furnishing of a small house was therein based.

"And if we haven't the money," remarked Euphemia, "it would be of
no earthly use to look at the book. It would only make us doubt
our own calculations. You might as well try to make brick without
mortar, as the children of Israel did."