As soon as I was shut in I noticed that the box next to me was occupied by a male customer, who was busy extolling the value and powers of a silver lever which he was trying to pledge. The pawnbroker was quite willing to take the watch, but, as is usual in such cases, the point on which they disagreed was the sum to be advanced on the pledge. The argument was not particularly interesting to me, and I gradually left it behind in my thoughts while I revelled in the queer brogue of the stranger. It was a rich and musical twang to my ears; and when the man came to any word with the letter R in it—such as “tr-r-r-ain”—he rolled that R out into about a thousand, with a rich swell which made one imagine he enjoyed it. I was puzzled for a moment or two to decide on the exact locality of the dialect—though I have often boasted that I can tell the dialects of Scotland and a good part of England to within thirty miles of the exact spot on hearing them spoken. “The man is from Newcastle,” I rather hastily decided; then came a slight mental demur at the decision. There were slight points of difference and many strong points of resemblance. I listened for a little longer, and then smiled out at my own slowness and stupidity. “I might have known that tongue at the first sentence,” was my mental exclamation. “It’s the Berwick burr.” While this analysis was going on in my mind, the haggling over the watch was concluded by the stranger accepting a loan of thirty shillings on the pledge, and a ticket was rapidly filled up to that effect, till it came to the important question— “What name?” There was a pause before the answer came, and when it was spoken there was much in the careless tone which implied that too much reliance was not to be placed on the truthfulness of the reply. “Oh, say John Smith.” “I can’t take it at all unless you give me your real name,” said the pawnbroker, sharply. I have no doubt my presence put a little _edge_ on him. “How am I to know,” he virtuously added, “that the watch is not stolen?” “Stolen?” echoed the stranger, warmly. “Man, there’s the name of the man I bought it frae;” and he turned out a watch-paper inserted under the back. I could not see the name, but I did make out the words “Berwick-on-Tweed.” “I’m no a thief—I’m a brassfounder to trade,” continued the man, with energy, “and I expect to lift it again in a week or two.” “A brassfounder?” I thought, with a start. “I wonder if his name is Smeaton?” While I was wondering the bargain was concluded, and the money paid over, and then the man left. I left my box at the same moment, and we moved out together. “It’s a nice morning,” he said, and I returned the greeting. When we reached the street he turned northwards, and I decided that that was my way too. “I heard you say you are a brassfounder,” I remarked. “You’ll be looking for a job?” No, he didn’t think he was—he meant to lie quiet for a little.