Th’ last thing he thowt ov that neet befooar he fell asleep wor, ha Mabel wod laugh next day when he telled her abaat it.

Next mornin when he’d had his braikfast, he donned hissen up smart as a chap owt to do when he’s gooin a cooartin, an set off in a cab to Mabel’s father’s haase.

Th’ lass wor lukkin aght for him, an after a bit o’ kussin an huggin (as is suitable at sich times) Sydney sed he mud as weel see her father an get it ovver.

“He’s in th’ library,” sed Mabel.

“Nah for it,” Sydney sed, as they stood aghtside th’ door, “gie me another kuss, lass, to keep me up to th’ mark, an eh! aw’ve sich a joke to tell thi abaat afterwards.”

Mabel kussed him ageean, an then shoo oppen’d th’ door an walked in, wi Sydney followin behund feelin varry uncumfortable, for its noa joke aw can tell yo axin an owd gentleman to gie yo his dowter.

Mister Mothersdale wor sittin at a table, writin a letter, when they went in an he didn’t luk up till Mabel sed:—­“Papa, dear, this is Mister Horne, th’ gentleman I told yo abaat, who protected me from that ruffian i’ Sheffield, who tried to rob me.”

He lukked up, and Sydney felt like to sink into his booits, for if it worn’t th’ varry owd chap at he’d travelled in th’ train wi’ th’ neet befooar.

Nah tho’ Sydney knew th’ owd chap in a crack, by gooid luck Mabel’s father hadn’t his glasses on, soa he didn’t mak him aght at furst.

“Awm varry fain to mak yor acquaintance, sir,” he sed, “my dowter has towd me ha kind yo wor i’ Sheffield, an aw wish to thank yo for it.”

Sydney wor soa flayed ov th’ owd feller rememberin his voice, ’at he shoved a hawpny into his maath befooar he spake, an then he sed:—­“Aw didn’t do much awm sewer, Sir.  It wor nowt at all.”

“Have aw ivver met yo befooar,” Mister Mothersdale axt, “aw seem to know yor voice?”

“Net as aw know on,” Sydney answered, feelin at he wor in for a thunderin lot o’ lyin.

“Mister Horne’s niver been i’ Brummagem befooar,” Mabel sed.

“It’s varry strange,” th’ owd man went on, as he put his specs on, “aw seem to know yor voice soa weel, an dear-a-me yor face reminds me ov sumdy but aw cannot tell who.”

Nah Sydney wor dressed quite different thro what he had th’ neet befooar, an while Mabel’s father wor puzzlin his heead abaat it, Mabel sed “Aw showed yo a photograph o’ Mister Horne, papa, praps that’s it?”

“That must be it,” Sydney sed, jumpin at th’ idea soa sharp, at in spite o’th hawpny he had in his maath, he spoke quite nateral like; an though th’ owd feller couldn’t believe ’at this nice gradely lukkin young man, could be th’ same as th’ madman he’d travelled wi’ th’ neet befooar, th’ idea coom into his heead, an th’ moor he lukked, th’ moor certain he grew.

“Can yo sing,” he axed.

“Awm a varry poor singer,” Sydney sed.

“Soa wor th’ chap last neet,” thowt owd Mothersdale, but Mabel put in, “Oh!  Papa he sings as beautifully as Sims Reeves.”