"It all sounds very mysterious," replied the old gentleman, as he gingerly prepared to take off the outside wrappings.
It was at this point that Ridgwell could contain himself no longer, for he felt as if he were present upon a Christmas Day before the gifts were opened.
"It's worth more than a hundred guineas," shouted Ridgwell.
"Then it is simply disgraceful extravagance," replied Sir Simon, "and I shall certainly not accept it."
"I am sure you will," ventured Christine, "it is the thing that he values most of anything he has got."
The last wrapping was undone, and the beautifully coloured and modelled Dick Whittington was disclosed to view. There was not even a spot or trace of ink anywhere upon his enamelled coat, the tree-stump, the milestone or the three-cornered hat, he had been washed and cleaned for the cabinet with a vengeance, and looked as beautiful and as spick and span as the day the artist had turned him out to an admiring world.
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed Sir Simon, as he viewed the treasure with the keen admiration of a connoisseur. "Why, it is perfect; I don't believe there is another one in existence like it. Where did you get it, and who is it meant to be?"
"Why, Dick Whittington, of course, Dad; so you see Lal was right after all."
Sir Simon placed the little figure carefully upon the table, and folding his hands regarded the Writer severely. "Do you happen to know that it was this particular piece of Lal's nonsense that has worried me more than anything else all these years?"
"It worried me for a long time until I found out his trick," confessed the Writer.