Ov cooarse as sooin as th’ danger wor ovver, an ther wor noa need o’ owt o’t sooart, th’ young lady swooned away—­an it tuk Sydney all his time to bring her raand, in fact it worn’t until he’d kissed her two or three times, at shoo begun o’ commin to her senses.

As sooin as shoo wor able to walk, he assisted her hooam, or at least to th’ haase wher shoo wor visitin.  On th’ way shoo tell’d him at they call’d her Mabel Mothersdale, that shoo wor stayin a wick or two wi some friends, an that shoo’d just slip aght to pop a letter into th’ pillar box, when th’ tramp attack’d her.

Sydney went next day to ax hah shoo wor.—­Shoo wor varry fain to see him—­an th’ friends shoo wor stayin wi made a big fuss ov him, an axd him to stay dinner.  He stayed ov cooarse.

Th’ next day he called wi a piece o’ music ’at he’d been tellin em abaat—­th’ day after he went wi some tickets for a grand concert ther wor baan to be i’ Sheffield—­an what wi one excuse or another, he seed her ivvery day—­an ivvery neet when he doffed his clooas an gate into bed, he felt moor i’ love wi Mabel nor he had done th’ neet befoor.

At last th’ day coom for her to goa back hooam to Brummagem, where her father lived, an when Sydney called to say “gooid bye” to her, he tuk th’ opportunity when they wor left aloan for abaat five minutes, to ax her to marry him.  Mabel wor a sensible lass, ho knew a reight chap when shoo seed one, soa shoo sed at shoo’d wed him wi pleasur if he’d get her father’s consent.

“Mother’s been deead these six years,” shoo sed, “but befoor shoo deed aw promised her faithful at aw’d nivver marry nubdy withaat mi father wor agreeable.”

Sydney kussed her an sed he wor quite content an he’d goa daan to Brummagem next Tuesday, an ax her father on th’ Wednesday mornin, an as he wor weel to do i’ money matters, noa daat ther’d be noa difficulty i’ gettin th’ owd feller to have him for a son i’ law.

Soa Mabel went hooam wi a happy heart, an caanted th’ haars wol next Wednesday, when shoo’d see her dear Sydney Algernon ageean.

Nah as aw tell’d yo befooar, Sydney wor a reight nice young feller—­he wor as steady as a clock, an nubdy couldn’t say nowt ageean him, nobbut for one thing, an that wor he’d getten an idea into his heead, at he couldn’t possibly live baat bacca—­mornin, nooin an neet, he wor hardly ivver withaat awther a pipe or a cigar in his maath, an tho’ fowk tell’d him at he smooked a deeal too mich, it wor noa gooid.

“Aw couldn’t live baat a bit o’ bacca,” he used to say, “an when th’ day cooms ’at aw may’nt smook, aw shall’nt care ha sooin they shut me up in a box, an cart me off to th’ burryin graand.”

Soa yo can easy imagine ’at wi sich sentiments as these, he didn’t leeave off smookin as ha fowk tawked.  At last Tuesdy coom, an as th’ best train for Brummagem left at five o’clock in th’ afternooin, Sydney decided he’d goa by that; an as its a longish gait, ov cooarse he tuk jolly gooid care to have plenty o’ smookin materials wi him.