(_With Mr. Punch's apologies for not having sent it on to "The
Spectator."_)

Geoffrey has an Irish terrier that he swears by. I don't mean by this that
he invokes it when he becomes portentous, but he is always annoying me with
tales, usually untruthful, of the wonderful things this dog has done.

Now I have a pointer, Leopold, who really is a marvellous animal, and I
work off tales of his doings on Geoffrey when he is more than usually
unbearable.

Until a day or two ago we were about level.

Although Geoffrey knows far more dog stories than I do, and has what must
be a unique memory, I have a very fair power of invention, and by working
this gift to its utmost capacity I have usually been able to keep pace with
him.

As I said, the score up to a few days ago was about even; yesterday,
however, was a red-letter day and I scored an overwhelming victory. Bear
with me while I tell you the whole story.

I was struggling through the porridge of a late breakfast when Geoffrey
strolled in. I gave him a cigarette and went on eating. He wandered round
the room in a restless sort of way and I could see he was thinking out an
ending for his latest lie. I was well away with the toast and marmalade
when he started.

"You know that dog of mine, Rupert? Well, yesterday--"