When he gate to th’ stashun, he faand aght to his disgust, ‘at th’ only reekin hoil on all th’ train wor full, soa he gate into another carriage an decided to mak that into one, for he’d getten some slips o’ paper in his pocket wi “Smookin” on, soa as he could stick one on if it wor required, haivver has nubdy else got in wi him, he didn’t bother abaat puttin th’ slip up.  At last th’ train started an glided aght o’ th’ leeted stashun into th’ darkness aghtside, for it wor winter time, an a thick muggy afternooin, soa he lit his pipe an started readin a “Clock Almanac” at he’d bowt—­an what wi readin th’ stories, an thinkin abaat ha sooin he’d see Mabel, an fillin his pipe, he didn’t nooatice where he’d getten too; when all ov a sudden th’ train started gooin slower an slower, an finally stopt at a bit ov a road-side stashun, abaat as big as one o’ them hot pay hoils whear lads caar ov a neet to spend ther coppers in.

As it wor a express he knew it didn’t owt to stop there, an just as he wor wonderin what ther wor to do, th’ door wor oppened an a little owd gentleman wi spectacles on, wor tumbled into th’ same compartment whear he wor, an a leather bag wor shoved in after him—­a porter touched his hat an shaated aght “All reet!” th’ door wor slammed too, th’ whistle blew, an th’ train started off agean.

“Phew!  Yor smookin, sir!” sed th’ owd chap as sooin as he’d getten his breeath an lukt raand.

“Eah!” sed Sydney, showin a cigar at he’d leeted not a minnit befooar.

“Aw insist on yor puttin it aght instantly,” sed th’ owd feller.

Sydney wornt used to bein ordered abaat like this, soa he sed: 

“Oh, yo insist on it, do yo, owd buffer, but suppooas aw dooant put it aght, what then?”

“But you shall put it aght, an at once too,” he went on, gettin varry red i’ th’ face, “do yo think at aw shall submit to be poisoned wi yor vile, disgustin tobacca smook? sich men as yo should ride in a cattle truck or a dog box—­tho’ if yo wor in there yo’d be taichin th’ cawves an puppies bad habbits—­Owd buffer, indeed!  I’ll have yo fined, sir.”

“Nah dooan’t yo get raggy,” sed Sydney, poolin aght his cigar case, an leetin another; “if aw have to be fined aw mud as weel have summat for my brass,” an he moved an sat on a seat in front o’th owd chap, an puffed aght o’ both cigars as fast as he could, wol he made sich a reek i’th hoil at th’ lamp up aboon lukk’d like a full mooin on a misty neet.

“Awm a director on this line,” th’ owd beggar gasped, “an aw insist on yor desistin the smookin at once, sir.”

“A director are yo? awm fain to see yo, aw’ve often wanted to ax one o’ ye gentry ha it is at th’ trains is soa unpunctual on this line?”

Th’ owd chap jumped up an run to th’ winder, an let it daan, an started tryin to find th’ cord to stop th’ train, but bi gooid luck he’d getten to th’ wrang side o’th carriage, an while he wor botherin to find th’ rope, Sydney opened th’ t’other winder an stuck one o’th’ slips wi “Smookin” on it, on th’ aghtside oth’ pane, an then he sed: