Sheffield Smook.

Mister Sydney Algernon Horne, wor a weel to do chap, as yo’ll gather thro’ his name, for parents dooant give ther child sich fine names unless thers a bit o’ brass behind em.  If owd Horne, Sydney’s feyther, had been a poor warkin man, he’d ha called th’ lad Tom, or Bill, or happen Mike; but as he wor a gentleman, wi Bank shares, an Cottage haase property, he dubbed th’ lad Sydney Algernon as aw’ve telled yo.  Aw think its nobbut reight at aw should tell yo at this rewl abaat names doesn’t allus hold gooid, for ther’s a mucky, dirty nooased, draggle-tail’d lass lives up awr yard, wi frowsy hair at couldn’t be straightened wi nowt short ov a cooambin machine; shoo hasn’t a hawpney to bless hersen wi, an yet shoo’s called Victoria Hujaney, after th’ Queen o’ these lands, an Ex-Empress o’th French.

But aw must get on wi mi tale, or else yo’ll happen be thinkin ’at awm nivver baan to tell it.  Mister Sydney Algernon Horne faand hissen an orphan at three an twenty year owd, an th’ owner o’ all th’ Bank Shares an th’ Cottages, besides th’ haase he lived in, which wor a varry nice one wi a big garden, an situated, as th’ advertisements says, in the mooast salubrious pairt o’ Sheffield.

He knew a deal o’ fowk at Sheffield—­fowk like him wi a heap o’ brass; an bein a single man, an furst-rate company, he wor welcomed i’ all th’ big haases, a deeal moor heartily nor mooast o’th’ readers o’th’ Clock Almanac wod ha been.  Young men made him welcome, becoss he could tell a gooid stooary an sing a song wi onny on em.  Faythers an mothers o’ marriageable dowters wor fain to see him, i’ hopes at he’d be smitten wi th’ charms o’ Matilda Charlotte or Ethel Maude,—­but th’ lasses thersens wor fainest to see him, becoss he wor nice lukkin, an could tawk soft to em, an he used to squeeze ther hands when he wor sayin “gooid bye,” soa gently, at he used to mak em ivvery one think at he wor dyin ov love for em.

But Sydney wor too wide awake to be catched easy; he wor varry happy an comfortable as a bachelor, an as he’d a gooid idea at i’ mooast cases it wor his brass an not him at they wanted, he steered clear o’ all th’ traps at they set for him; an when th’ Kursmis parties wor all ovver, he wor still single—­an they’d none on em getten noa forrader wi him when winter coom agean, an put a stop to Lawn Tennis an Croquet Parties.

But yo know it says i’ th’ gooid owd Book at it isn’t “gooid for a man to dwell alooan”—­an aw suppoas it isn’t, for someha or other, sooiner or later mooast young chaps get dropt on, an Sydney wor noa excepshun to th’ rewl.  Aw’ll tell yo hah it wor.

One snowy neet, at abaat six o’clock he wor gooin hooam to his dinner, (for swells yo must know ha ther dinners at th’ time at respectable warkin fowk ha ther teahs)—­He wor just passin a dark lane end, when he heard a woman’s voice singin aght “Help!  Help!”

He cut up th’ rooad as fast as he could, an abaat twenty yards thro’ th’ corner, he seed a regular offal lukkin feller strugglin wi a young lady under a gas pooast.—­As sooin as th’ ruffian seed Sydney commin, he bolted ovver a wall, in a way at showed at it worn’t th’ furst time at he’d takken to his heels to save hissen a thrashin.