I asked the meaning of this phrase, suspecting that some bit of homely and perhaps valuable advice lay under it, but Jaggers thought not. “Only Barny Bosher’s sauce,” he said. “He’s a fightin’ man--pick of the basket at nine-stone, five--so he thinks he can sye what he likes; but he’s got a good ’eart.” We pushed on until a small shop appeared, framed in bird-cages. Spiritless fowls of different sorts and colours sat and drooped in them--parrots, cockatoos, budgerigars, and other foreigners of a kind unfamiliar to me. “Come in,” said Jaggers. “This is Muggridge’s shop; and what he don’t know about ’osses, an’ all livin’ things for that matter, ain’t worth knowin’.” Mr. Muggridge was at his counter, busy about a large wooden crate bored with many holes. From these proceeded strange squeaks and grunts. “’Alf a mo,” he said. “It’s a consignment of prize guinea-pigs, and they wants attention partickler urgent; for they’ve been on the South Eastern Railway, in a luggage train, pretty near since last Christmas by all accounts, and a luggage train on that line’s a tidy sample of eternity, I’m told.” Mr. Muggridge was a little, bright, cheerful person, who framed his life on the philosophy of his own canaries. The shop was warm, even stuffy, perhaps--still warm; so I said one or two kind things about the beasts and birds, then took a chair and looked at my watch. “I can wait,” I told him. “Can the ’oss? That’s the question,” asked Jaggers, and he began to murmur something about being kept away from his work, and hard times; so I gave him a shilling, and he thanked me, though not warmly, and instantly vanished into the fog--to go on dog-fancying, no doubt. Mr. Muggridge complimented me on my love for animals. He then began to pull strange, rough bundles of white, black, and yellow fur from his wooden crate. The things looked like a sort of animated blend between a penwiper and a Japanese chrysanthemum. Indeed, I told him so, and he retorted by advising me to take a couple home for my young people. With a sigh, I agreed to do so, and Mr. Muggridge, evidently surprised at such ready acquiescence, grew excited, and suggested two more. “You try a pair o’ them Hangoras, and a pair o’ them tortoiseshells,” he said, “and before you can look round you’ll be breedin’ guinea-pigs as’ll take prizes all over Europe--pedigree pigs, pigs with a world-wide reputation!” “Very well, two pairs,” I answered, “since you wish it.” And then I observed that Muggridge was thinking very hard. I fancy he realised that the opportunity of a lifetime lay before him. “Yes,” he said suddenly, answering his own reflections, “to a gentleman like you, I _will_ part with it, though it’s dead against the grain. But you ought to have it--my last mongoose--a lady’s pet--a little hangel in the ’ouse! Five guineas!” “There’s a large brown horse fallen down in the next street; that’s what I’m here for,” I cried aloud, ignoring the mongoose.