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Chapter II. THE PLOT THICKENS

A grave question arose the moment we opened our eyes next morning. Who was to write the first chapter? A great deal depended on how it was done. The style of the first chapter would give tone to the whole novel, and, so to speak, show the way for all the other chapters.

“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.

And under cover of this truthful announcement we escaped.

It was midday before I laid down my pen and gathered my scattered sheets together. Harry had been done before me, but he had only written eleven sheets, so our pace was about equal.

“Done?” said he, as I sat back in my chair.

“Yes; lock the door,” said I.

I must beg the reader’s pardon if I do not lay before them the whole of the two lucubrations. They must be content with a few impartially chosen selections.

My chapter began with a poetical description of London in early morning.

“London in the morning! What a scene! The whistle of the workmen’s trains sounds, and the noise of vegetable carts going to Covent Garden Market, give the place an animated appearance. Very few people are awake, and those that are look sleepy.

“In such a scene as this a hideous-looking woman, about fifty years old, with a long nose and a shabby barrel-organ, wended her way from some of the slums near Farringdon Street Station in the direction of Euston Square.

“It was not a very pretty walk. There were no birds twittering in the trees, or cuckoos. You could not hear the gentle roar of the ocean, and what flowers there were, were in pots on the window-sills.

“The ugly woman chose the road where there were most public-houses, and I am sorry to say that any one who had walked close beside her would have heard her talking to herself in very bad language.”

Here followed the description of a few of the public-houses and their natural beauties, and my narrative proceeded–

“In this way the wicked woman reached Euston Square. She was greatly intoxicated, and not able to play the tunes on her organ correctly. Nobody gave her anything, which was not surprising, and the police moved her on all round the square.