It never did, happily, and the worthy man was consequently always well satisfied with his purchases; which--whatever he gave for them--he always contrived to sell at a very respectable profit.
It was with a view to this profit that I found myself looking out of Mr Argent's window, in the High Street of Muggerbridge, with a ticket round my neck, conveying the (to me) very gratifying information that "this superb watch was to be disposed of for the moderate amount of L4 10 shillings only," and a parenthesis below further indulged my vanity by volunteering the information that I was worth L6.

It _did_ occur to me to wonder why, if I was worth L6, Mr Argent should be such a donkey as to sell me for only three-quarters of that sum.

Either he was a very benevolent man, or he was in immediate want of L4 10 shillings, or he had his doubts as to my alleged value.

I somehow fancied the last was the true reason, and was half afraid he was right too.
Well, I looked out of Mr Argent's windows for two months, and by that time became acquainted with nearly all the inhabitants of Muggerbridge.
On my first arrival I was an object of a good deal of curiosity and admiration, for any change in a country shop window is an excitement, and when that change takes the form of a L6 "superb" watch offered for L4 10 shillings, it was no wonder the honest Muggerbridgians gaped in at me and read my label.
But in a very little time familiarity had bred contempt, and I lay almost unheeded by the outside world.

The grocer opposite, with his triumphal arch of jam-pots monopolised all the wonder, and most of the admiration, and I had the mortification of seeing passers turn their backs on me, and step over the way to contemplate that vulgar structure.
I had, however, one or two constant admirers.