"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."
"Then it couldn't ha been him," thowt her father, an then he axt: