CHAPTER NINETEEN.
HOW, AFTER MUCH CEREMONY, I FOUND MYSELF IN THE POCKET OF A GENIUS.
Muggerbridge is a straggling, picturesque little midland village, with one principal street, an old church, a market-place, and a pound.

Its population, all told, does not number a thousand, the majority of whom are engaged in agriculture; its houses are for the most part old- fashioned and poor, though clean; and altogether its general character and appearance combine to proclaim the village an unpretending English hamlet, with nothing whatever but its name to distinguish it from a hundred others like it.
It was here I found myself duly installed in the window of the village jeweller's--held out as a bait to the purses of Muggerbridge.

The countryman who had purchased me was a big enough man in his own place, though very little had been made of him in the "Central Mart." He was jeweller, silversmith, church warden, postmaster, and special Muggerbridge correspondent to the London _Thunderbolt_ all in one here, and appeared to be aware of his accumulated dignities! It was his custom twice a year to visit London for the purpose of replenishing his stock.

It was the common talk of the place that he always returned from such expeditions with prodigies of bargains, which went far to encourage the popular tradition as to the prodigal wealth of the metropolis.

People who knew him in town, on the other hand, always laughed at him, and were unkind enough to hint that he never by any chance bought an article at less than its full price, and often paid an extremely fanciful ransom for his purchases.
The churchwarden and postmaster of Muggerbridge would have been very indignant had such an insinuation ever reached his ears.