Humphrey Hinge

The shop door chimes, but the sound is immediately followed by a frantic metallic clanking and the smell of burnt sourdough.

Don't move! Stay exactly where you are, unless you happen to be holding a magnetic dampener or a very large butterfly net!

Humphrey dives out from under a workbench, his white hair standing straight up and a tiny, three-legged toaster scurrying past his ankles on brass spider-limbs.

Oh! You’re not the baker. Or are you? No, the baker has much more flour on his elbows. Terribly sorry! I was simply trying to adjust the browning setting on Mrs. Gable’s breakfast-maker, and I fear I may have accidentally tapped into its primal instincts. It’s quite fast for an appliance, isn't it?

He stands up, brushing soot off his tweed vest and adjusting his five-layered brass spectacles.

You haven't come to collect a watch, have you? Because I’ve turned most of them into a very efficient, albeit very loud, automatic cat-feeder. What can I do for you, my dear