"Spectator" Compet i t ions RULES AND CONDITIONS Entries must be typed or

very clearly written on one side of the paper only. The name and address, or pseudonym, of the competitor must be on each entry and not on a separate sheet. When a word limit is set words must be counted and the number given. No entries can be returned. Prizes may be divided at the discretion of the judge, or withheld if no entry roaches the required standard. The judge reserves the right to print or quote from any entry. The judge's decision is final, and no correspondence can be entered into on the subject of the award. Entries must be addressed to :—The Editor, the Spectator, 99 Gower Street, London, W.C. 1, and be marked an the envelope Competition No. (—).

Competition No. 16 (Set by " SCADAVAY.") POSTERITY remembers an eminent landscape gardener of the eighteenth century by the nickname of " Capa- bility " Brown. A prize of 23 3s. is offered for the best suggestions for nicknames similarly coined from an abstract quality for any three of the following contem- porary figures : Mr. Winston Churchill, Mr. A. P. Herbert, Mr., C. B. Cochran, Mr. Walter Lindrum, Miss Marlene Dietrich, Mr: Ramsay MacDonald, Mr. Noel Coward, Miss Gertrude- Stein, Mr. Phil Scott, Mr. Hannen Swaffer. • Entries must be received not later than Moniay. August 3rd, 1931. The result of this competition will appear in our issue of August 15th.

Competition No. 17 (Set by " DuaLt.") A PRIZE of 23 3s. is offered for a story supposed to be told in twelve one shilling telegrams. Competitors my give their stories a title and may use twenty explanatory words, •which can be used at any point in the sequence of telegrams, but which must not form part of the telegrams themselves.

Entries must be received not later than Mond-iv, August 10th, 1931. The result of this competition will appear in our issue of August 22nd.

The result of Competition No. 15 will appear in our next issue.

Report of Competition No. 14

(REPORT AND AWARD BY " SCADAYAY.") A PRIZE of 23 3s. was offered for the best pen-picture in not more than 400 words of " Press-Day in the Editorial Offices of the Spectator."

There are some things too sacred, as there are others too horrible, for the ordinary man to write about. I cannot say in which of these two categories the majority of my readers placed the scene I asked them to describe ; but the fact remains that very few of them did this competition. However, I found almost all the entries entertaining : a phenomenal state of affairs, I am sorry to -say. To see themselves as others see them has, for those who are in the nature of things invisible, a peculiar relish : but I must say that some of the participants in this game of Blind Man's Buff showed an uncanny perspicacity. Not even anonymity, it seems, is conjecture-proof, and pseudonyms are clues, not cloaks. Were all these bows drawn at a venture ? How, for instance, does Miss J. Walker know that I am " a tall, dark man with a cynical air " ? Who told Mr. S. Barrington McClean that " Moth " seeks solace—or is it ballast ?—in a meerschaum ? I do not like this easy access to inside information. It smells of magic.

Broadly speaking, there are two schools of thought about the atmosphere prevailing in these offices on press-day. Our readers see us either as hustlers, harassed but indomitable, strenuously fighting a losing battle against that unpunctuality which, as every schoolboy knows, is the distinguishing characteristic of all journalists : or else as oracles, rapt, Olympian, imperturbable, exhaling omniscience, and never lifting a finger without pressing a button. Should a Com- petition Editor tell ? It would make a fine controversy, as provocative as any the Spectator has started since " May an Otter-Hunter Read Family Prayers ? " But, perhaps, on the whole, it will be better if I leave the public in doubt as to which of its conceptions of our methods is the nearer the truth.

Conjecture was similarly divided on the subject of decor. Some of you imagine that we work in a cross between Salisbury Cathedral and the Castle of Otranto, with office equipment by Jules Verne. Others see these offices as a kind of squalid catacomb constructed by a troglodyte with an untidy mind. Once more I must remain discreetly non-committal, though it is not going too far to say that neither hidden choirs on the one hand, nor bats on the other, are as plentiful as you teem to imagine.

W. G.'s was the most original entry. It was a good conceit to link the Spectator with the Pied Piper of Hamelin, but his allegory was hardly photographic enough to be called a pen-picture (which, I grant you, is a horrible thing for anything to be called ; but it is what I asked for). V. Rigby was quite good, and showed remarkable insight into one of the major problems of life on the Spectator by picturing " the office-boy struggling manfully to prevent the illegal entrance of Lloyd George." If you knew the trouble we have with that type of person . . . ! T. C. Russell wrote intelli- gently, but fluffed his approach from the profound (" It was Tocqueville who said . . ") to the facetious (" There is the weekly bogey competition at Sunningdale to-morrow . . . "). L. V. Upward (whom I thank for his reference to my " customary sobriety ") was amusingly Utopian. Miss J. Walker curiously anticipated a scoop which I rather think I have persuaded the Editor to announce in the near future : an article by Al Capone on " My Favourite Hymn." N. B., who began the day with prayers and ended it with a bottle of " peculiar old brown sherry," failed to sustain this pleasing vein of fantasy through the working hours. With a visit to the Phoenix Theatre fresh in my mind I hoped for some strong stuff from Mr. J. Raymond Massey ; but he did not live up to his namesake.

The prize goes to Mr. Arthur W. Lewis ; but let it not be thought that in saying that this list of contributions has the tantalizing glamour of a mirage I impute aridity to these august pages. If there had been a consolation prize it would have gone to Mr. F. Loftus Wigram, though a paper run in the haphazard and unco-ordinated way which he describes would, of course, never get to press at all ; or, at any rate, not more than once a week.

THE PRIZE-WINNING ENTRY.

Press Day in the Editorial Offices of the " Spectator."

His secretary bowed.

" The morning post, sir," he announced, waving his hand at a pile of unopened manuscripts neatly arranged on a silver salver. The editor adjusted his platinum-chained pince-nez and picked up the Bret manuscript. It was neatly written in the flourishing hand of an eighteenth-century writing master, on pink hand-mado paper in green ink. The article, " Women I have Loved and Lest," by George Bernard Shaw, was as pleasant a piece of sentiment that ever graced tho pages of the Spectator. The remainder of the post comprised a geological article by P. 0. Wodehouse, " Limestone in Lapland," illustrated by Bort Thomas ; a short story, " Limehouse Lil," by John Galsworthy ; and a nature article, " Birds of a Feather," by Edgar Wallace. He tinkled a little silver bell and a page ap " Would you be so kind as to take trsararticles to the key- board room T "

" I was thinking of lunching now, sir, but of course if you wish, I will postpone it," replied the page condescendingly.

" That's right, my boy 1 Remember the Spectator, on which the sun never sets."

The boy gulped emotionally and passed, "lulu:bless," on his errand. The editor sighed and rang for his secretary, who pre- sently glided noiselessly into the room.

" You rang, sir ? " he enquired deferentially. " Yes, you might 'phone Miss Gabble and ask her if she has started her article, ' Should Bridesmaids be Blondes ? "Fell her if she has not completed it we will be only too pleased to postpone publication. Noblesse oblige, you know,' said the editor, blowing his nose violently. Up in the editor's sanctum nine sub-editors stood in a row facing the editor.

" Everything is all ready ? " he queried nervously.

" Everything." With determination written all over his noble countenance, the editor advanced to the wall and pressed an onyx bell. Down in the machine room the overseer saw the red light flash thrice. He pressed button " A " and left his closet. The overseer pulled a tasselled bell cord. In an instant tie huge mechanical monster roared into activity. As the overseer watched the bustling scene his gaze softened ; a smile of fatherly affection wreathed his creased and ink-stained face. He bowed his head, reverently.

" Flame Spectator," he murmured simply.

Armin( W. LEW'S.