“No; that struck me as one of the weak points of Nicholas Nickleby,” said I.
“I thought it was settled the hero was to be in it from the first?” said Harry, falling back on another line of defence.
“So he is. I shall say in the next chapter that he was in the room underneath all the time,” said I, rather testily.
“Oh, well,” said Harry, “of course if you think yours is the best, you’d better stick it in. I’m out of it, if you’re going in for poetry.”
“You’re not obliged to do any poetry,” said I. “Thanks. I shouldn’t try unless I was sure of writing something that wasn’t doggerel,” said Harry. This was hitting me on a tender point. “Look here,” said I, starting up, “do you mean to tell me I write doggerel?”
“I didn’t say so.”
“You meant it. I’d sooner write doggerel than stuff I’d be ashamed to read in a ‘penny dreadful.’ Call yourself a fair boy!”
Alas for our novel! We spent half an hour that evening in anything but a literary competition.
Aunt Sarah remarked on Harry’s black eye and my one-sided countenance at breakfast next morning, and inquired artlessly if English composition had caused them. We truly answered, “Yes.”
Our friendship was quickly restored; but our poor novel, after that one evening, has never lifted up its head again. We have sometimes vaguely talked of finishing it, but we have been careful to avoid all discussion of details, still less all reference to Chapter One. In fact, we have come to the conclusion that it is better not to startle the world at too early an age. If you do, you are expected to keep it up, and that interferes with your enjoyment of life.