“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘are you attached to that instrument of yours?’ ‘So deeply,’ he answered, ’that, like Nero, I could fiddle if Bovey Tracey were burning at this moment.’  ’You can perform on it creditably?’ I asked.  ‘In a fashion to bring tears to your eyes,’ he answered me, and offered to prove his words.  ‘Not for worlds,’ said I; ‘but it grieves me to think how Fortune distributes her favours.’  I told him of my father.  ’I should like to make the acquaintance of such a man,’ said he.  ‘You shall,’ said I; and fetching a pencil and a scrap of paper out of my pocket, I wrote as follows:—­

“To Mr. Jonathan Fett, Manufacturer of Flams,
W. Bromicheham.”

“The Public Stocks, Bovey Tracey, Devon. 
June 21st (longest day).”

“DEAR FATHER,
           Adopt bearer, in lieu of
                      Your affectionate son,
                                     PHINEAS.”

“The fiddler at first suspected a jest:  but on my repeated assurances took the letter thankfully, and at parting, on our release, pressed on me the end of his sausage wrapped in a piece of newspaper.  I ate the sausage moodily and was about to throw the paper away when my eye caught sight of an advertisement in the torn left-hand corner.  I read it, and my mind was made up.  I am here, and (thanks to you, sir) with a rose in my hat.”

By the time Mr. Fett concluded his narrative we had reached the outskirts of the town, and found ourselves in a traffic which, converging upon the Market Strand from every side-street and alley, at once carried us along with it and constrained us to a walking pace.  My father, finding the throng on the Market Strand too dense for our horses, turned aside to the Three Cups Inn across the street, gave them over to the ostler, and led us upstairs to a window which overlooked the gathering.

The Market Strand at Falmouth is an open oblong space, not very wide, leading off the main street to the water’s edge, and terminating in steps where as a rule the watermen wait to take off passengers to the Packets.  A lamp-post stands in the middle of it, and by the base of this the preachers—­a grey-headed man and two women in ugly bonnets—­ were already assembled, with but a foot or two dividing them from the crowd.  Close behind the lamp-post stood a knot of men conversing together one of whom stepped forward for a word with the grey-headed preacher.  He wore a rose in his hat, and at sight of him my heart gave a wild incredulous leap.  It was Nat Fiennes!

I pushed past my father and flung the open window still wider.  The grey-haired preacher had opened the Bible in his hand and was climbing the stone base of the lamp-post when a handful of filth struck the back of the book and bespattered his face.  I saw Nat whip out his sword and swing about angrily in the direction of the shot, while the two women laid hands on either arm to check him; and at the same moment my father spoke up sharply in my ear.