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 i