Yet he was very anxious to get the novelist’s autograph. The fact was that Mr. Day, his housemaster, a man whose private life was in other ways unstained by vicious habits, collected autographs. Also Mr. Day had behaved in a square manner towards Dunstable on several occasions in the past, and Dunstable, always ready to punish bad behaviour in a master, was equally anxious to reward and foster any good trait which he might exhibit.
On the occasion of the announcement that Mr. Watson had taken the big white house near Chesterton, a couple of miles from the school, Mr. Day had expressed in Dunstable’s hearing a wish that he could add that celebrity’s signature to his collection. Dunstable had instantly determined to play the part of a benevolent Providence. He would get the autograph and present it to the housemaster, as who should say, “see what comes of being good.” It would be pleasant to observe the innocent joy of the recipient, his childlike 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, typewritten 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 today 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 spent on tuck. I want to be like Maltby in The Soul of Anthony Carrington when I grow up.
It was a little unfortunate, perhaps, that he selected Maltby as his ideal character. That gentleman was considered by critics a masterly portrait of the cynical roui. But it was the only name he remembered.
“Hot stuff!” said Dunstable to himself, as he closed the envelope.
“Little beast!” said Mr. Watson to himself as he opened it. It arrived by the morning post, and he never felt really himself till after breakfast.
“Here, Morrison,” he said to his secretary, later in the morning: “just answer this, will you? The usual thing—thanks and most deeply grateful, y’know.”
Next day the following was included in Dunstable’s correspondence:
Mr. Montagu Watson presents his compliments to Mr. P. A. Dunstable, and begs to thank him for all the kind things he says about his work in his letter of the 18th inst., for which he is deeply grateful.
“Foiled!” said Dunstable, and went off to Seymour’s to see his friend Linton.
“Got any notepaper?” he asked.
“Heaps,” said Linton. “Why? Want some?”
“Then get out a piece. I want to dictate a letter.”
Linton stared.
“What’s up? Hurt your hand?”
Dunstable explained.
“Day collects autographs, you know, and he wants Montagu Watson’s badly. Pining away, and all that sort of thing. Won’t smile until he gets it. I had a shot at it yesterday, and got this.”
Linton inspected the document.
“So I can’t send up another myself, you see.”
“Why worry?”
“Oh, I’d like to put Day one up. He’s not been bad this term. Come on.”
“All right. Let her rip.”
Dunstable let her rip.
Dear Sir—I cannot refrain from writing to tell you what an inestimable comfort your novels have been to me during years of sore tribulation and distress—
“Look here,” interrupted Linton with decision at this point. “If you think I’m going to shove my name at the end of this rot, you’re making the mistake of a lifetime.”
“Of course not. You’re a widow who has lost two sons in South Africa. We’ll think of a good name afterwards. Ready?
“Ever since my darling Charles Herbert and Percy Lionel were taken from me in that dreadful war, I have turned for consolation to the pages of The Soul of Anthony Carrington and—”
“What, another?” asked Linton.
“There’s one called Pancakes.”
“Sure? Sounds rummy.”
“That’s all right. You have to get a queer title nowadays if you want to sell a book.”
“Go on, then. Jam it down.”
“—and Pancakes. I hate to bother you, but if you could send me your autograph I should be more grateful than words can say. Yours admiringly.”
“What’s a good name? How would Dorothy Maynard do?”
“You want something more aristocratic. What price Hilda Foulke-Ponsonby?”
Dunstable made no objection, and Linton signed the letter with a flourish.
They installed Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby at Spiking’s in the High Street. It was not a very likely address for a lady whose blood was presumably of the bluest, but they could think of none except that obliging stationer who would take in letters for them.
There was a letter for Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby next day. Whatever his
