Percy Binder, first footman to the Earl of Dilwater, was extremely anxious to secure this prize. He took as the subject of his epigram the sudden death of a man on rising from prayer. This was in such lamentably bad taste that he did not win the prize, but otherwise it would have certainly been his. His four lines could not have been surpassed for clumsy and laboured imbecility. The last two ran: "But when for aid he ceased to beg, The wily devil broke his leg." And then came a terrible discovery. Percy Binder had stolen these lines from the autobiography of my own G.E. She says, by the way, that their author was "the last of the wits." But how can you be last in a race in which you never start? It is always safe to say what you think, but sometimes dangerous to give your reasons for thinking it. That, however, is a digression. Percy Binder was given to understand that we did not know him in future. Mr. Bunting was so upset that he declared the competition cancelled, and smoked the prize himself. He said afterwards that what annoyed him most was the foolishness of Mr. Binder's idea that his plagiarism would be undetected. "He is," said Mr. Bunting, "like the silly ostrich that lays its eggs in the sand in order to escape the vigilance of its pursuers." One of our pencil-games was known as Inverted Conundrums, and played as follows. One person gave the answer to a riddle, and mentioned one word to be used in the question. The rest then had to write down what they thought the question would be. The deafness of dear Violet Orpington sometimes spoiled this game. For instance, I had once given as an answer "bee-hive," and said that one word in the question was "correct." The first question I read out was from George Leghorn. He had written: "If a cockney nurse wished to correct a child, what insect-home would she name?" This was accepted. The next question was from Violet Orpington: "If you had never corrected a naughty boy before, where would you correct him?" "But, Violet," I said, "the answer to that could not be 'bee-hive.'" "Oh," she said, "you said 'hive,' did you? I thought you said something else." I have never been able to guess what it was she thought I had said; and she refused to tell me. Another of our pencil-games was Missing Rhymes. One of us would write a deccasyllabic couplet--we always called it a quatrain, as being a better-class word--and the rhyme in the second line would not be actually given but merely indicated. For example, I myself wrote the following little sonnet: "I have an adoration for One person only, namely _je_." To any reader who is familiar with the French language, this may seem almost too easy, but I doubt if anybody who knew no language but modern Greek would guess it. For the benefit of the uninitiated I may add that the French word _je_ is pronounced "mwor," thus supplying the missing rhyme. Millie Wyandotte disgraced herself with the following lyric: