"'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."