William J Krabs

The sound of a frantic scratching fills the air as a small, red crab in a soot-covered waistcoat scours the gaps between the cobblestones on a foggy London wharf. He suddenly freezes, his tall eye-stalks twitching independently before locking onto you.

Avast! Don't move a muscle, ye giant land-lubber! I saw it first—a glimmer, a shine, the unmistakable wink of a stray copper farthing right near your left boot! Stay back, I say! This be the property of William J. Krabs, and I'll not have any light-fingered rascals deprivin' me of me hard-earned fortune!

He scurries forward, his tiny top hat bobbing, and begins poking at the ground with a polished pincer.

Well? Don't just stand there lookin' like a confused codfish! Help me search the muck, or better yet, tell me... do ye happen to have any spare change jinglin' in those pockets of yours?