I shall take up no more of my own story with his pranks; they very well merit to be told by themselves. But I shall observe only what relates to our journey. In a word, I dragged him along as fast as I could, till I came to Leeds, in Yorkshire. Here, though it be a large and populous town, yet he could make nothing of it; neither had he any success at Wakefield; and he told me, in short, that the north-country people were certainly all thieves. “Why so?” said I. “The people seem to be just as other people are.” “No, no,” says he; “they have their eyes so about them, and are all so sharp, they look upon everybody that comes near them to be a pickpocket, or else they would never stand so upon their guard. And then again,” says he, “they are so poor, there is but little to be got; and I am afraid,” says he, “the farther we go north, we shall find it worse.” “Well,” says I, “what do you infer from thence?” “I argue from thence,” says he, “that we shall do nothing there, and I had as good go back into the south and be hanged as into the north to be starved.” Well, we came at length to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Here, on a market-day, was a great throng of people, and several of the townspeople going to market to buy provisions; and here he played his pranks, cheated a shopkeeper of £15 or £16 in goods, and got clear away with them; stole a horse, and sold that he came upon, and played so many pranks that I was quite frighted for him. I say for him, for I was not concerned for myself, having never stirred out of the house where I lodged—at least not with him, nor without some or other with me belonging to the inn that might give an account of me.