“At Weevil’s,” cried the other, full of relief and joy. “At Weevil’s in High Street. And be sure you get fresh ones, Mr. Solent. Tell Bob Weevil they’re for me. He knows me and I know him. Don’t mention Squire. Say they’re for Mr. Monk. He’ll know! Two pounds of sausages; and you can tell Weevil to put ’em down. Thank ’ee more than I can say, Sir, for doing this. It eases a man’s mind. I was downright distraught in thinking of it. Squire’s like that. What he puts his heart on he puts his heart on, and none can turn him. I’ve been with other gentlemen⁠—mostly in stable-work you understand⁠—but I’ve never worked for one like Squire. Doesn’t do to contravene Squire when his heart is fixed, and so I thank ’ee kindly, Mr. Solent.” And the man vanished with the same precipitation with which he appeared.