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.