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.