least has been the assurance given to all the eminent authors
by the Editor in question. But _Mr. Punch_ laughs at other people's
assurances, and by means of powers conferred upon him by himself for
that purpose, he has been able to obtain access to all the novels
hitherto sent in, and will now publish a selection of Prize Novels,
together with the names of their authors, and a few notes of his own,
wherever the text may seem to require them.

In acting thus _Mr. Punch_ feels, in the true spirit of the newest
and the Reviewest of Reviews, that he is conferring a favour on the
authors concerned by allowing them the publicity of these columns.
Sometimes pruning and condensation may be necessary. The operation
will be performed as kindly as circumstances permit. It is hardly
necessary to add that _Mr. Punch_ will _give his own prize in his own
way, and at his own time_, to the author he may deem the best. And
herewith _Mr. Punch_ gives a specimen of--

NO. I.--ONE MAN IN A COAT.

(_BY_ ARRY O.K. ARRY, _AUTHOR OF "STIGE FICES," "CHEAP WORDS OF A
CHIPPY CHAPPIE," ETSETTERER._)

[PREFATORY NOTE.--This Novel was carefully wrapped up in
some odd leaves of MARK TWAIN'S _Innocents Abroad_, and was
accompanied by a letter in which the author declared that
the book was worth L3000, but that "to save any more blooming
trouble," he would be willing to take the prize of L1000 by
return of post, and say no more about it.--ED.]

CHAPTER I.

It was all the Slavey what got us into the mess. Have you ever noticed
what a way a Slavey has of snuffling and saying, "Lor, Sir, oo'd 'a
thought it?" on the slightest provocation. She comes into your room
just as you are about to fill your finest two-handed meerschaum with
Navy-cut, and looks at you with a far-away look in her eyes, and a
wisp of hair winding carelessly round the neck of her print dress. You
murmur something in an insinuating way about that box of Vestas you
bought last night from the blind man who stands outside "The Old King
of Prussia" pub round the corner. Then one of her hairpins drops into
the fireplace, and you rush to pick it up, and she rushes at the same
moment, and your head goes crack against her head, and you see some
stars, and a weary kind of sensation comes over you, and just as you
feel inclined to send for the cat's-meat man down the next court to
come and fetch you away to the Dogs' Home, in bounces your landlady,
and with two