course, by far the greater number were submitted to public competition, and the frequenters of the money market bit with tolerable freedom. But there were some wary old fish who refused so much as to nibble at the glittering bait, and foremost amongst them was old Muggins, that veteran stockbroker of whom Tom Harris had made mention at my table. Muggins was a character, and disagreeably outspoken. One day I met him at the Royal Exchange, and taking him playfully by the button, I asked him why he gave our Company the cold shoulder. “Mr Bulkeley, sir, I’ll tell you,” said Muggins, with a frown: “I shirk your Company, sir, because I can’t afford to lose my property in duck-and-drake fashion among those swindling Yankees. I hate bubbles, sir, and this is worse, for it is a cruel robbery.” “Sir, sir! Mr Muggins!” said I, choking with anger. What did this remarkable man proceed to say? Just this: “George Bulkeley, I have known you from a boy, and you are an honest man, though not very bright (I was speechless at his effrontery). When I call this affair a swindle, I don’t impute blame to you, for I am aware that you are a dupe, not a duper. But I don’t pity you for losing some pen-feathers out of your wings, as you will do; I keep my pity for the poor wretches who will be plucked bare, and who can least spare the little savings or capital your fine prospectus has wheedled them into investing,—I mean the widows and old maids, the half-pay officers, the needy clergymen, that your Company is to ruin. I wish I could see your American friends in the pillory, I know! Good-day.”