determined to play the part of a benevolent Providence. He would get
the autograph and present it to the house-master, as who should say,
"see what comes of being good." It would be pleasant to observe the
innocent joy of the recipient, his child-like triumph, and his
amazement at the donor's ingenuity in securing the treasure. A
touching scene--well worth the trouble involved in the quest.

And there would be trouble. For Mr. Montagu Watson was notoriously a
foe to the autograph-hunter. His curt, type-written replies (signed by
a secretary) had damped the ardour of scores of brave men and--more or
less--fair women. A genuine Montagu Watson was a prize in the
autograph market.

Dunstable was a man of action. When Mark, the boot-boy at Day's,
carried his burden of letters to the post that evening, there nestled
among them one addressed to M. Watson, Esq., The White House,
Chesterton. Looking at it casually, few of his friends would have
recognised Dunstable's handwriting. For it had seemed good to that man
of guile to adopt for the occasion the role of a backward youth of
twelve years old. He thought tender years might touch Mr. Watson's
heart.

This was the letter:

_Dear Sir_,--I am only a littel boy, but I think your
books ripping. I often wonder how you think of it all. Will you
please send me your ortograf? I like your books very much. I have
named my white rabit Montagu after you. I punched Jones II in
the eye to-day becos he didn't like your books. I have spent the
only penny I have on the stampe for this letter which I might have