The breeze was still choppy, and they made but slow progress, tacking frequently.  On land, it had been very hot, and the Simpsons’ crowded kitchen had been stifling.  Even on the lake, when the breeze fell, the sun was hot enough to make Nick throw off his coat.  They zigzagged backwards and forwards across the lake; the boat went sluggishly, and both her passengers were sleepy.  The only wakeful individual was the pig, who had ceased to yell, more from lack of breath than from any pleasant inclination, and was steadily employed in widening the hole cut for its head.