Judge then my surprise when on opening the next number of The Attic Salt-Cellar I found that the instalment of the serial consisted only of the following:—
THE PRAIRIE LILY.
CHAPTER II.
All went merrily on the good ship Astarte until the evening of the third day out, when it ran into another and larger ship and was sunk with all hands. No one was saved.
THE END.
"But, my dear," I said, "you can't write novels like that."
"Why not, Uncle Dick?" Enid asked.
"Because it's not playing the game," I said. "After arousing everyone's interest and exciting us with the first chapter, you can't stop it all like this."
"But it happened," she replied. "Ships often sink, Uncle Dick, and this one sank."
"Well, that's all right," I said, "but, my dear child, why drown everyone? Why not let your own people be saved? Not the Duke and Duchess, perhaps, but the others. Think of all those jolly things that were going to happen in Texas, and the duel, and—"
"Yes, I know," she replied sadly. "It's horrid to have to give them up, but I couldn't help it. The ship would sink and no one was saved. I shall have to begin another."
There's a conscience for you! There's realism! Enid should go far.
I have been wondering if there are any other writers of serial stories whose readers would not suffer if similar visitations of inevitability came to them.