Then I loaded my big gun and
thought to blow her clean out of the water.
"My dear Margaret," said I, "Aristotle lays it down that every work of
art has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning of our story was
the catching of the great jack, the middle of it was the fight at the 'Red
Bull,' and the end of it was the kiss you gave me. You see, dear, how
exactly I have done what Aristotle says I ought to do."
"Bother Aristotle! What does he know about us?" It was here that she
sniffed, not figuratively but actually. That is to say she held up her
nose, on pretence of looking at me, and audibly ... well, sniffed. There's
no other word for it. Then she cried triumphantly, "What is the use, Noll,
of telling our story and not saying a single word about the most important
people in it?"
To this question I made no reply. I was beaten. Aristotle, had he been in
my place, would have been beaten too. If we had been in town I would have
run round to Mr. Johnson's and asked him to assist me, but I feel sure he
would have been as helpless as I was. There was no reply, so I contented
myself with playing with her gorgeous hair till it was all a-tumble to the
floor.
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