But I must find her." The squire hastily seized a scrap of paper on the table and wrote on it.
"There!" he handed the paper to the farmer; "that's my son's address, 'Boyne's Bank, City, London.' Go to him there, and you'll find him perched on a stool, and a good drubbing won't hurt him.

You've my hearty permission, I can assure you: you may say so.

'Boyne's Bank.' Anybody will show you the place.

He's a rascally clerk in the office, and precious useful, I dare swear.

Thrash him, if you think fit." "Ay," said the farmer, "Boyne's Bank.