In this town Richard had settled after his return from America, in which country he had enriched himself--first, by spirit and industry--lastly, by bold speculation and good luck. He invested his fortune in business--became a partner in a large brewery--soon bought out his associates--and then took a principal share in a flourishing corn-mill. He prospered rapidly--bought a property of some two or three hundred acres, built a house, and resolved to enjoy himself, and make a figure. He had now become the leading man of the town, and the boast to Audley Egerton that he could return one of the members, perhaps both, was by no means an exaggerated estimate of his power. Nor was his proposition, according to his own views, so unprincipled as it appeared to the statesman. He had taken a great dislike to both the sitting members--a dislike natural to a sensible man of modern politics, who had something to lose. For Mr. Slappe, the active member--who was head-over-ears in debt--was one of the furious democrats rare before the Reform Bill--and whose opinions were held dangerous even by the mass of a liberal constituency; while Mr. Sleekie, the gentleman member, who laid by £5000 every year from his dividends in the Funds, was one of those men whom Richard justly pronounced to be "humbugs"--men who curry favor with the extreme party by voting for measures sure not to be carried; while, if there were the least probability of coming to a decision that would lower the money market, Mr. Sleekie was seized with a well-timed influenza. Those politicians are common enough now. Propose to march to the Millennium, and they are your men. Ask them to march a quarter of a mile, and they fall to feeling their pockets, and trembling for fear of the footpads. They are never so joyful as when there is no chance of a victory. Did they beat the Minister, they would be carried out of the house in a fit.