“I thought,” said Harry, in his suspicious off-hand way, “if you took the even numbers and I took the odd, that might do.”
Might it? That would mean he would write Chapter One. I wanted to write Chapter One. On the other hand, it would mean I should have Chapter twelve, with the execution in it, which would suit me very well. I mentioned the fact, and could see that Harry had forgotten it, for he tried hard to back out of his arrangement.
“I think you’d do the first chapter best,” said he. “There’s some scenery in it, you know, and you’re more of a dab at that than I am.”
But my modesty preferred the even numbers, and our novel looked very like being water-logged before she had even been launched.
A compromise was, however, arrived at. As the question of style was very important, it was decided we should both write Chapter One, and then, after comparing the two attempts, arrange our further procedure accordingly.
So I with a J pen, and Harry with a D retired to opposite corners of the room and plunged headlong into the “Theft of Alicia.” It was a hard morning’s work, and by the time the breakfast-bell rang we were both getting the steam up. The sight of Aunt Sarah brooding over the tea-tray had but one meaning for us, and Sister Alice’s pretty face and soft voice spoke to me only of that baby I had left in my chapter lying on the seat in the square.
“Now, little boys, are you going to play on the beach to-day?” said the villain, as the meal concluded.
“No, aunt,” said Harry. “Syd and I have got some work we are doing.”
“What work?” demanded Aunt Sarah.
“English composition,” said Harry boldly.