re announced, the doctor publicly stated that "though
many of the compositions were meritorious, yet, on the whole, those of
Sproutels and Hullock showed most originality, and, indeed, gave
considerable promise. The prize would be shared between them."

Of course, after that, all question as to our calling in life was at an
end, and the sooner we "fleshed" our pens before the world the better.
So it was arranged that Hullock was to get his father and mother to
invite me for the midsummer holidays, and that before Denhamby saw us
again, "Our Novel" should be started.

The Hullock family, it is necessary to say here, consisted of my
partner, his two parents, a maiden aunt, and a sister. Mr Hullock, a
good and worthy little man, who had not had all the advantages of
education which his son possessed, was a retired coal merchant, spending
the afternoon of his days at Saint Leonards.

His wife, as kind and motherly as she was tall and portly, treated me
like her own son from the moment I entered her house.

And with her to look after me, and Alice to fall in love with, and Harry
to collaborate with, I was about as comfortable as a restless genius
could be--that is, I should have been so had it not been for the damp
and frigid influence of Aunt Sarah, who sympathised neither with genius
nor youth, and certainly not with the two in combination. Twenty times
a day she grieved me by calling me "silly little boy," and twenty times
a day she exasperated me by reminding Harry, and, through him, me, that
"little boys should be seen and not heard."

However, we decided to ignore this uncongenial influence, and bury our
sorrows in "Our Novel."

"Tell you what," said Harry, as we walked on the pier the first evening,
"we ought to look sharp and get our plot."

"Wouldn't it be better to settle on the characters and get the plot
afterwards?"

"All serene!" said Harry; "can you suggest any one for a hero?"

Harry said this in a half significant, half off-hand manner, which made
it evident to me he expected I should at once nominate him.

But, in my judgment, Harry hardly possessed all the qualifications
necessary for the hero of our novel. So I replied, half significantly,
half off-handedly too--

"Hadn't _you_ better think of some one?"

Here we were in a fix at the very start. For Harry insisted he would
much rather that I should select, and I was equally anxious for him to
do it.

At length we compromised the matte