This wor moor nor Angelina could stand, an sinkin into th’ rockin cheer, shoo wod ha fainted reight away, but happenin to see th’ clock, shoo saw it wor time for Bob to start for his wark, an he couldn’t stop to bring her raand, soa shoo had to pospone faintin till another time.

“Happen awd better bury it i’th garden,” he sed, “it willn’t tak a minnit.”

“E’e! nay!” shoo sed, “aw’ll lap it up i’ some nice clean newspaper, an tha mun tak it wi thi, an when tha finds a nice secluded spot, whear it can rest peacefully, lay it to rest.”

“All reight, lass! put it on th’ table wol aw goa for mi hat an coit,” sed Bob, “an dunnot freeat.”

Angelina lapt it carefully up, an sat daan to have a gooid cry, an Bob coom rushin daan, feeard he’d be lat, tuckt th’ bundle under his arm an set off intendin to drop it into th’ furst ashpit he coom to.

He passed monny a one, but ther wor allus somdy abaat, an he couldn’t get a chonce o’ gettin shut on it, an he wor foorced to tak it to th’ office wi him.  This didn’t trubble him varry mich, for he’d allus a hawf an haar for his lunch at twelve o’clock, soa he detarmined he’d dispooas on it then, an i’th meantime, he put it in a cubboard i’th office, whear it wodn’t be seen.

It seem’d to Bob at moor fowk went to th’ cubboard that mornin nor had ivver been to it befoor.

“Its time this cubboard had a clean aght,” sed th’ manager as he wor huntin for a book, “it smells like a vault.”

Bob tremeld, but all passed off safely.  Twenty times during that mornin he wor put in a sweeat wi’ furst one an another, but twelve o’clock coom at last, an waitin till tother clarks had gooan, he grabbed his parcel, an jumpt in th’ furst tramcar he saw,—­luckily ther wor nobbut one man inside an he wor readin a paper,—­soa puttin his parcel i’th opposite corner, he jumpt off at the next stoppin place.  He started off at full speed an wor just beginnin to smile at his own clivverness, when somdy shaated.

“Hi!  Hi, thear!” an turning to luk, he saw a man rushin towards him holdin his parcel.

“You forgot your parcel, young man,” he said, puffin an blowin, “it was lucky I happened to see it!”

Bob sed “thank yo” as weel as he could, an then sed summat else, which aw willn’t repeat, an tuckin it under his arm, he went to th’ place whear he usually gat his breead an cheese an his glass o’ bitter.

He sat in a quiet corner, an one bi one th’ customers went aght, an thinkin he saw a favourable chonce, he put his bundle on th’ seeat, and threw a newspaper carelessly ovver it, supt up—­an when he thowt nubdy wor lukkin he quietly left it an wor sooin back in his office, feelin wonderfully relieved.  But he hadn’t seen th’ last on it even then.

All wor quiet except for th’ scratchin o’ pens, for th’ maister wor sittin at his private desk, when a redheeaded lad,—­Bob thowt he wor th’ ugliest lad he’d ivver seen in his life,—­coom in grinnin, an sydlin up to him, an holdin th’ parcel at arms length, as if he wor feeared o’ bein bitten, he sed, “th’ lanlord o’th ‘Slip Inn’ has sent this,—­he says yo left it on th’ seeat.”