Chapter V: Part 5

And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to ’ave all the luck on ’is side. Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which ’e put down to sitting about night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while ’e was in the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in getting over a fence and broke ’is leg. Then all the work fell on Keeper Smith, and to ’ear ’im talk you’d think that rheumatic fever and broken legs was better than anything else in the world. He asked the squire for ’elp, but the squire wouldn’t give it to ’im, and he kept telling ’im wot a feather in ’is cap it would be if ’e did wot the other two couldn’t do, and caught Bob Pretty. It was all very well, but, as Smith said, wot ’e wanted was feathers in ’is piller, instead of ’aving to snatch a bit o’ sleep in ’is chair or sitting down with his ’ead agin a tree. When I tell you that ’e fell asleep in this public-’ouse one night while the landlord was drawing a pint o’ beer he ’ad ordered, you’ll know wot ’e suffered.

O’ course, all this suited Bob Pretty as well as could be, and ’e was that good-tempered ’e’d got a nice word for everybody, and when Bill Chambers told ’im ’e was foolhardy ’e only laughed and said ’e knew wot ’e was about.

But the very next night ’e had reason to remember Bill Chambers’s words. He was walking along Farmer Hall’s field—the one next to the squire’s plantation—and, so far from being nervous, ’e was actually a-whistling. He’d got a sack over ’is shoulder, loaded as full as it could be, and ’e ’ad just stopped to light ’is pipe when three men burst out o’ the plantation and ran toward ’im as ’ard as they could run.

Bob Pretty just gave one look and then ’e dropped ’is pipe and set off like a hare. It was no good dropping the sack, because Smith, the keeper, ’ad recognised ’im and called ’im by name, so ’e just put ’is teeth together and did the best he could, and there’s no doubt that if it ’adn’t ha’ been for the sack ’e could ’ave got clear away.

As it was, ’e ran for pretty near a mile, and they could ’ear ’im breathing like a pair o’ bellows; but at last ’e saw that the game was up. He just managed to struggle as far as Farmer Pinnock’s pond, and then, waving the sack round his ’ead, ’e flung it into the middle of it, and fell down gasping for breath.

“Got—you—this time—Bob Pretty,” ses one o’ the men, as they came up.

“Wot—_Mr. Cutts?_” ses Bob, with a start.

“That’s me, my man,” ses the keeper.

“Why—I thought—you was. Is that _Mr. Lewis?_ It can’t be.”

“That’s me,” ses Keeper Lewis. “We both got well sudden-like, Bob Pretty, when we ’eard you was out. You ain’t so sharp as you thought you was.”

Bob Pretty sat still, getting ’is breath back and doing a bit o’ thinking at the same time.

“You give me a start,” he ses, at last. “I thought you was both in bed, and, knowing ’ow hard worked Mr. Smith ’as been, I just came round to ’elp ’im keep watch like. I promised to ’elp you, Mr. Cutts, if you remember.”

“Wot was that you threw in the pond just now?” ses Mr. Cutts.

“A sack,” ses Bob Pretty; “a sack I found in Farmer Hall’s field. It felt to me as though it might ’ave birds in it, so I picked it up, and I was just on my way to your ’ouse with it, Mr. Cutts, when you started arter me.”

“Ah!” ses the keeper, “and wot did you run for?”

Bob Pretty tried to laugh. “Becos I thought it was the poachers arter me,” he ses. “It seems ridikilous, don’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” ses Lewis.

“I thought you’d know me a mile off,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I should ha’ thought the smell o’ roses would ha’ told you I was near.”

Bob Pretty scratched ’is ’ead and looked at ’im out of the corner of ’is eye, but he ’adn’t got any answer. Then ’e sat biting his finger-nails and thinking while the keepers stood argyfying as to who should take ’is clothes off and go into the pond arter the pheasants. It was a very cold night and the pond was pretty deep in places, and none of ’em seemed anxious.

“Make ’im go in for it,” ses Lewis, looking at Bob; “’e chucked it in.”

“On’y becos I thought you was poachers,” ses Bob. “I’m sorry to ’ave caused so much trouble.”

“Well, you go in and get it out,” ses Lewis, who pretty well guessed who’d ’ave to do it if Bob didn’t. “It’ll look better for you, too.”

“I’ve got my defence all right,” ses Bob Pretty. “I ain’t set a foot on the squire’s preserves, and I found this sack a ’undred yards away from it.”

“Don’t waste more time,” ses Mr. Cutts to Lewis.

“Off with your clothes and in with you. Anybody’d think you was afraid of a little cold water.”

“Whereabouts did ’e pitch it in?” ses Lewis.

Bob Pretty pointed with ’is finger exactly where ’e thought it was, but they wouldn’t listen to ’im, and then Lewis, arter twice saying wot a bad cold he’d got, took ’is coat off very slow and careful.

“I wouldn’t mind going in to oblige you,” ses Bob Pretty, “but the pond is so full o’ them cold, slimy efts; I don’t fancy them crawling up agin me, and, besides that, there’s such a lot o’ deep holes in it. And wotever you do don’t put your ’ead under; you know ’ow foul that water is.”

Keeper Lewis pretended not to listen to ’im. He took off ’is clothes very slowly and then ’e put one foot in and stood shivering, although Smith, who felt the water with his ’and, said it was quite warm. Then Lewis put the other foot in and began to walk about careful, ’arf-way up to ’is knees.

“I can’t find it,” he ses, with ’is teeth chattering.

“You ’aven’t looked,” ses Mr. Cutts; “walk about more; you can’t expect to find it all at once. Try the middle.”

Lewis tried the middle, and ’e stood there up to ’is neck, feeling about with his foot and saying things out loud about Bob Pretty, and other things under ’is breath about Mr. Cutts.

“Well, I’m going off ’ome,” ses Bob Pretty, getting up. “I’m too tender-’arted to stop and see a man drownded.”

“You stay ’ere,” ses Mr. Cutts, catching ’old of him.

“Wot for?” ses Bob; “you’ve got no right to keep me ’ere.”

“Catch ’old of ’im, Joe,” ses Mr. Cutts, quick-like.

Smith caught ’old of his other arm, and Lewis left off trying to find the sack to watch the struggle. Bob Pretty fought ’ard, and once or twice ’e nearly tumbled Mr. Cutts into the pond, but at last ’e gave in and lay down panting and talking about ’is loryer. Smith ’eld him down on the ground while Mr. Cutts kept pointing out places with ’is finger for Lewis to walk to. The last place ’e pointed to wanted a much taller man, but it wasn’t found out till too late, and the fuss Keeper Lewis made when ’e could speak agin was terrible.

“You’d better come out,” ses Mr. Cutts; “you ain’t doing no good. We know where they are and we’ll watch the pond till daylight—that is, unless Smith ’ud like to ’ave a try.”

“It’s pretty near daylight now, I think,” ses Smith.

Lewis came out and ran up and down to dry ’imself, and finished off on ’is pocket-’andkerchief, and then with ’is teeth chattering ’e began to dress ’imself. He got ’is shirt on, and then ’e stood turning over ’is clothes as if ’e was looking for something.

“Never mind about your stud now,” ses Mr. Cutts; “hurry up and dress.”

“_Stud?_” ses Lewis, very snappish. “I’m looking for my trowsis.”

“Your trowsis?” ses Smith, ’elping ’im look.

“I put all my clothes together,” ses Lewis, a’most shouting. “Where are they? I’m ’arf perished with cold. Where are they?”

“He ’ad ’em on this evening,” ses Bob Pretty, “’cos I remember noticing ’em.”

“They must be somewhere about,” ses Mr. Cutts; “why don’t you use your eyes?”

He walked up and down, peering about, and as for Lewis he was ’opping round ’arf crazy.

“I wonder,” ses Bob Pretty, in a thoughtful voice, to Smith—“I wonder whether you or Mr. Cutts kicked ’em in the pond while you was struggling with me. Come to think of it, I seem to remember ’earing a splash.”

“He’s done it, Mr. Cutts,” ses Smith; “never mind, it’ll go all the ’arder with ’im.”

“But I do mind,” ses Lewis, shouting. “I’ll be even with you for this, Bob Pretty. I’ll make you feel it. You wait till I’ve done with you. You’ll get a month extra for this, you see if you don’t.”

“Don’t you mind about me,” ses Bob; “you run off ’ome and cover up them legs of yours. I found that sack, so my conscience is clear.”

Lewis put on ’is coat and waistcoat and set off, and Mr. Cutts and Smith, arter feeling about for a dry place, set theirselves down and began to smoke.

“Look ’ere,” ses Bob Pretty, “I’m not going to sit ’ere all night to please you; I’m going off ’ome. If you want me you’ll know where to find me.”

“You stay where you are,” ses Mr. Cutts. “We ain’t going to let you out of our sight.”

“Very well, then, you take me ’ome,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to catch my death o’ cold sitting ’ere. I’m not used to being out of a night like you are. I was brought up respectable.”

“I dare say,” ses Mr. Cutts. “Take you ’ome, and then ’ave one o’ your mates come and get the sack while we’re away.”

Then Bob Pretty lost ’is temper, and the things ’e said about Mr. Cutts wasn’t fit for Smith to ’ear. He threw ’imself down at last full length on the ground and sulked till the day broke.

Keeper Lewis was there a’most as soon as it was light, with some long hay-rakes he’d borrowed, and I should think that pretty near ’arf the folks in Claybury ’ad turned up to see the fun. Mrs. Pretty was crying and wringing ’er ’ands; but most folks seemed to be rather pleased that Bob ’ad been caught at last.

In next to no time ’arf-a-dozen rakes was at work, and the things they brought out o’ that pond you wouldn’t believe. The edge of it was all littered with rusty tin pails and saucepans and such-like, and by-and-by Lewis found the things he’d ’ad to go ’ome without a few hours afore, but they didn’t seem to find that sack, and Bob Pretty, wot was talking to ’is wife, began to look ’opeful.

But just then the squire came riding up with two friends as was staying with ’im, and he offered a reward of five shillings to the man wot found it. Three or four of ’em waded in up to their middle then and raked their ’ardest, and at last Henery Walker give a cheer and brought it to the side, all heavy with water.

“That’s the sack I found, sir,” ses Bob, starting up. “It wasn’t on your land at all, but on the field next to it. I’m an honest, ’ardworking man, and I’ve never been in trouble afore. Ask anybody ’ere and they’ll tell you the same.”

Squire Rockett took no notice of ’im. “Is that the sack?” he asks, turning to Mr. Cutts.

“That’s the one, sir,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I’d swear to it anywhere.”

“You’d swear a man’s life away,” ses Bob. “’Ow can you swear to it when it was dark?”

Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ’im. He went down on ’is knees and cut the string that tied up the mouth o’ the sack, and then ’e started back as if ’e’d been shot, and ’is eyes a’most started out of ’is ’ead.

“Wot’s the matter?” ses the squire.

Mr. Cutts couldn’t speak; he could only stutter and point at the sack with ’is finger, and Henery Walker, as was getting curious, lifted up the other end of it and out rolled a score of as fine cabbages as you could wish to see.

I never see people so astonished afore in all my born days, and as for Bob Pretty, ’e stood staring at them cabbages as if ’e couldn’t believe ’is eyesight.

“And that’s wot I’ve been kept ’ere all night for,” he ses, at last, shaking his ’ead. “That’s wot comes o’ trying to do a kindness to keepers, and ’elping of ’em in their difficult work. P’r’aps that ain’t the sack arter all, Mr. Cutts. I could ha’ sworn they was pheasants in the one I found, but I may be mistook, never ’aving ’ad one in my ’ands afore. Or p’r’aps somebody was trying to ’ave a game with you, Mr. Cutts, and deceived me instead.”

The keepers on’y stared at ’im.

“You ought to be more careful,” ses Bob. “Very likely while you was taking all that trouble over me, and Keeper Lewis was catching ’is death o’ cold, the poachers was up at the plantation taking all they wanted. And, besides, it ain’t right for Squire Rockett to ’ave to pay Henery Walker five shillings for finding a lot of old cabbages. I shouldn’t like it myself.”

He looked out of the corner of ’is eye at the squire, as was pretending not to notice Henery Walker touching ’is cap to him, and then ’e turns to ’is wife and he ses:

“Come along, old gal,” ’e ses. “I want my breakfast bad, and arter that I shall ’ave to lose a honest day’s work in bed.”

DIXON’S RETURN

Talking about eddication, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, the finest eddication you can give a lad is to send ’im to sea. School is all right up to a certain p’int, but arter that comes the sea. I’ve been there myself and I know wot I’m talking about. All that I am I owe to ’aving been to sea.

There’s a saying that boys will be boys. That’s all right till they go to sea, and then they ’ave to be men, and good men too. They get knocked about a bit, o’ course, but that’s all part o’ the eddication, and when they get bigger they pass the eddication they’ve received on to other boys smaller than wot they are. Arter I’d been at sea a year I spent all my fust time ashore going round and looking for boys wot ’ad knocked me about afore I sailed, and there was only one out o’ the whole lot that I wished I ’adn’t found.

Most people, o’ course, go to sea as boys or else not at all, but I mind one chap as was pretty near thirty years old when ’e started. It’s a good many years ago now, and he was landlord of a public-’ouse as used to stand in Wapping, called the Blue Lion.

His mother, wot had ’ad the pub afore ’im, ’ad brought ’im up very quiet and genteel, and when she died ’e went and married a fine, handsome young woman who ’ad got her eye on the pub without thinking much about ’im. I got to know about it through knowing the servant that lived there. A nice, quiet gal she was, and there wasn’t much went on that she didn’t hear. I’ve known ’er to cry for hours with the ear-ache, pore gal.

Not caring much for ’er ’usband, and being spoiled by ’im into the bargain, Mrs. Dixon soon began to lead ’im a terrible life. She was always throwing his meekness and mildness up into ’is face, and arter they ’ad been married two or three years he was no more like the landlord o’ that public-’ouse than I’m like a lord. Not so much. She used to get into such terrible tempers there was no doing anything with ’er, and for the sake o’ peace and quietness he gave way to ’er till ’e got into the habit of it and couldn’t break ’imself of it.

They ’adn’t been married long afore she ’ad her cousin, Charlie Burge, come in as barman, and a month or two arter that ’is brother Bob, who ’ad been spending a lot o’ time looking for work instead o’ doing it, came too. They was so comfortable there that their father—a ’ouse-painter by trade—came round to see whether he couldn’t paint the Blue Lion up a bit and make ’em look smart, so that they’d get more trade. He was one o’ these ’ere fust-class ’ousepainters that can go to sleep on a ladder holding a brush in one hand and a pot o’ paint in the other, and by the time he ’ad finished painting the ’ouse it was ready to be done all over agin.

I dare say that George Dixon—that was ’is name—wouldn’t ha’ minded so much if ’is wife ’ad only been civil, but instead o’ that she used to make fun of ’im and order ’im about, and by-and-by the others began to try the same thing. As I said afore, Dixon was a very quiet man, and if there was ever anybody to be put outside Charlie or Bob used to do it. They tried to put me outside once, the two of ’em, but they on’y did it at last by telling me that somebody ’ad gone off and left a pot o’ beer standing on the pavement. They was both of ’em fairly strong young chaps with a lot of bounce in ’em, and she used to say to her ’usband wot fine young fellers they was, and wot a pity it was he wasn’t like ’em.

Talk like this used to upset George Dixon awful. Having been brought up careful by ’is mother, and keeping a very quiet, respectable ’ouse—I used it myself—he cert’nly was soft, and I remember ’im telling me once that he didn’t believe in fighting, and that instead of hitting people you ought to try and persuade them. He was uncommon fond of ’is wife, but at last one day, arter she ’ad made a laughing-stock of ’im in the bar, he up and spoke sharp to her.

“_Wot?_” ses Mrs. Dixon, ’ardly able to believe her ears.

“Remember who you’re speaking to; that’s wot I said,” ses Dixon.

“’Ow dare you talk to me like that?” screams ’is wife, turning red with rage. “Wot d’ye mean by it?”

“Because you seem to forget who is master ’ere,” ses Dixon, in a trembling voice.

“_Master?_” she ses, firing up. “I’ll soon show you who’s master. Go out o’ my bar; I won’t ’ave you in it. D’ye ’ear? Go out of it.”

Dixon turned away and began to serve a customer. “D’ye hear wot I say?” ses Mrs. Dixon, stamping ’er foot. “Go out o’ my bar. Here, Charlie!”

“Hullo!” ses ’er cousin, who ’ad been standing looking on and grinning.

“Take the _master_ and put ’im into the parlour,” ses Mrs. Dixon, “and don’t let ’im come out till he’s begged my pardon.”

“Go on,” ses Charlie, brushing up ’is shirt-sleeves; “in you go. You ’ear wot she said.”

He caught ’old of George Dixon, who ’ad just turned to the back o’ the bar to give a customer change out of ’arf a crown, and ran ’im kicking and struggling into the parlour. George gave ’im a silly little punch in the chest, and got such a bang on the ’ead back that at fust he thought it was knocked off.

When ’e came to ’is senses agin the door leading to the bar was shut, and ’is wife’s uncle, who ’ad been asleep in the easy-chair, was finding fault with ’im for waking ’im up.

“Why can’t you be quiet and peaceable?” he ses, shaking his ’ead at him. “I’ve been ’ard at work all the morning thinking wot colour to paint the back-door, and this is the second time I’ve been woke up since dinner. You’re old enough to know better.”

“Go and sleep somewhere else, then,” ses Dixon. “I don’t want you ’ere at all, or your boys neither. Go and give somebody else a treat; I’ve ’ad enough of the whole pack of you.”

He sat down and put ’is feet in the fender, and old Burge, as soon as he ’ad got ’is senses back, went into the bar and complained to ’is niece, and she came into the parlour like a thunderstorm.

“You’ll beg my uncle’s pardon as well as mine afore you come out o’ that room,” she said to her ’usband; “mind that.”

George Dixon didn’t say a word; the shame of it was a’most more than ’e could stand. Then ’e got up to go out o’ the parlour and Charlie pushed ’im back agin. Three times he tried, and then ’e stood up and looked at ’is wife.

“I’ve been a good ’usband to you,” he ses; “but there’s no satisfying you. You ought to ha’ married somebody that would ha’ knocked you about, and then you’d ha’ been happy. I’m too fond of a quiet life to suit you.”

“Are you going to beg my pardon and my uncle’s pardon?” ses ’is wife, stamping ’er foot.

“No,” ses Dixon; “I am not. I’m surprised at you asking it.”

“Well, you don’t come out o’ this room till you do,” ses ’is wife.

“That won’t hurt me,” ses Dixon. “I couldn’t look anybody in the face arter being pushed out o’ my own bar.”

They kept ’im there all the rest o’ the day, and, as ’e was still obstinate when bedtime came, Mrs. Dixon, who wasn’t to be beat, brought down some bedclothes and ’ad a bed made up for ’im on the sofa. Some men would ha’ ’ad the police in for less than that, but George Dixon ’ad got a great deal o’ pride and ’e couldn’t bear the shame of it. Instead o’ that ’e acted like a fourteen-year-old boy and ran away to sea.

They found ’im gone when they came down in the morning, and the side-door on the latch. He ’ad left a letter for ’is wife on the table, telling ’er wot he ’ad done. Short and sweet it was, and wound up with telling ’er to be careful that her uncle and cousins didn’t eat ’er out of house and ’ome.

She got another letter two days arterward, saying that he ’ad shipped as ordinary seaman on an American barque called the _Seabird_, bound for California, and that ’e expected to be away a year, or thereabouts.

“It’ll do ’im good,” ses old Burge, when Mrs. Dixon read the letter to ’em. “It’s a ’ard life is the sea, and he’ll appreciate his ’ome when ’e comes back to it agin. He don’t know when ’e’s well off. It’s as comfortable a ’ome as a man could wish to ’ave.” It was surprising wot a little difference George Dixon’s being away made to the Blue Lion. Nobody seemed to miss ’im much, and things went on just the same as afore he went. Mrs. Dixon was all right with most people, and ’er relations ’ad a very good time of it; old Burge began to put on flesh at such a rate that the sight of a ladder made ’im ill a’most, and Charlie and Bob went about as if the place belonged to ’em.

They ’eard nothing for eight months, and then a letter came for Mrs. Dixon from her ’usband in which he said that ’e had left the _Seabird_ after ’aving had a time which made ’im shiver to think of. He said that the men was the roughest of the rough and the officers was worse, and that he ’ad hardly ’ad a day without a blow from one or the other since he’d been aboard. He’d been knocked down with a hand-spike by the second mate, and had ’ad a week in his bunk with a kick given ’im by the boatswain. He said ’e was now on the _Rochester Castle_, bound for Sydney, and he ’oped for better times.

That was all they ’eard for some months, and then they got another letter saying that the men on the _Rochester Castle_ was, if anything, worse than those on the _Seabird_, and that he’d begun to think that running away to sea was diff’rent to wot he’d expected, and that he supposed ’e’d done it too late in life. He sent ’is love to ’is wife and asked ’er as a favour to send Uncle Burge and ’is boys away, as ’e didn’t want to find them there when ’e came home, because they was the cause of all his sufferings.

“He don’t know ’is best friends,” ses old Burge. “’E’s got a nasty sperrit I don’t like to see.”

“I’ll ’ave a word with ’im when ’e does come home,” ses Bob. “I s’pose he thinks ’imself safe writing letters thousands o’ miles away.”

The last letter they ’ad came from Auckland, and said that he ’ad shipped on the _Monarch_, bound for the Albert Docks, and he ’oped soon to be at ’ome and managing the Blue Lion, same as in the old happy days afore he was fool enough to go to sea.

That was the very last letter, and some time arterward the _Monarch_ was in the missing list, and by-and-by it became known that she ’ad gone down with all hands not long arter leaving New Zealand. The only difference it made at the Blue Lion was that Mrs. Dixon ’ad two of ’er dresses dyed black, and the others wore black neckties for a fortnight and spoke of Dixon as pore George, and said it was a funny world, but they supposed everything was for the best.

It must ha’ been pretty near four years since George Dixon ’ad run off to sea when Charlie, who was sitting in the bar one arternoon reading the paper, things being dull, saw a man’s head peep through the door for a minute and then disappear. A’most direckly arterward it looked in at another door and then disappeared agin. When it looked in at the third door Charlie ’ad put down ’is paper and was ready for it.

“Who are you looking for?” he ses, rather sharp. “Wot d’ye want? Are you ’aving a game of peepbo, or wot?”

The man coughed and smiled, and then ’e pushed the door open gently and came in, and stood there fingering ’is beard as though ’e didn’t know wot to say.

“I’ve come back, Charlie,” he ses at last.

“Wot, _George!_” ses Charlie, starting. “Why, I didn’t know you in that beard. We all thought you was dead, years ago.”

“I was pretty nearly, Charlie,” ses Dixon, shaking his ’ead. “Ah! I’ve ’ad a terrible time since I left ’once.”

“‘You don’t seem to ha’ made your fortune,” ses Charlie, looking down at ’is clothes. “I’d ha’ been ashamed to come ’ome like that if it ’ad been me.”

“I’m wore out,” ses Dixon, leaning agin the bar. “I’ve got no pride left; it’s all been knocked out of me. How’s Julia?”

“She’s all right,” ses Charlie. “Here, Ju—”

“_H’sh!_” ses Dixon, reaching over the bar and laying his ’and on his arm. “Don’t let ’er know too sudden; break it to ’er gently.”

“Fiddlesticks!” ses Charlie, throwing his ’and off and calling, “Here, _Julia!_ He’s come back.”

Mrs. Dixon came running downstairs and into the bar. “Good gracious!” she ses, staring at her ’usband. “Whoever’d ha’ thought o’ seeing you agin? Where ’ave you sprung from?”

“Ain’t you glad to see me, Julia?” ses George Dixon.

“Yes, I s’pose so; if you’ve come back to behave yourself,” ses Mrs. Dixon. “What ’ave you got to say for yourself for running away and then writing them letters, telling me to get rid of my relations?”

“That’s a long time ago, Julia,” ses Dixon, raising the flap in the counter and going into the bar. “I’ve gone through a great deal o’ suffering since then. I’ve been knocked about till I ’adn’t got any feeling left in me; I’ve been shipwrecked, and I’ve ’ad to fight for my life with savages.”

“Nobody asked you to run away,” ses his wife, edging away as he went to put his arm round ’er waist. “You’d better go upstairs and put on some decent clothes.”

Dixon looked at ’er for a moment and then he ’ung his ’ead.

“I’ve been thinking o’ you and of seeing you agin every day since I went away, Julia,” he ses. “You’d be the same to me if you was dressed in rags.”

He went upstairs without another word, and old Burge, who was coming down, came down five of ’em at once owing to Dixon speaking to ’im afore he knew who ’e was. The old man was still grumbling when Dixon came down agin, and said he believed he’d done it a-purpose.

“You run away from a good ’ome,” he ses, “and the best wife in Wapping, and you come back and frighten people ’arf out o’ their lives. I never see such a feller in all my born days.”

“I was so glad to get ’ome agin I didn’t think,” ses Dixon. “I hope you’re not ’urt.”

He started telling them all about his ’ardships while they were at tea, but none of ’em seemed to care much about hearing ’em. Bob said that the sea was all right for men, and that other people were sure not to like it.

“And you brought it all on yourself,” ses Charlie. “You’ve only got yourself to thank for it. I ’ad thought o’ picking a bone with you over those letters you wrote.”

“Let’s ’ope ’e’s come back more sensible than wot ’e was when ’e went away,” ses old Burge, with ’is mouth full o’ toast.

By the time he’d been back a couple o’ days George Dixon could see that ’is going away ’adn’t done any good at all. Nobody seemed to take any notice of ’im or wot he said, and at last, arter a word or two with Charlie about the rough way he spoke to some o’ the customers, Charlie came in to Mrs. Dixon and said that he was at ’is old tricks of interfering, and he would not ’ave it.

“Well, he’d better keep out o’ the bar altogether,” ses Mrs. Dixon. “There’s no need for ’im to go there; we managed all right while ’e was away.”

“Do you mean I’m not to go into my own bar?” ses Dixon, stammering.

“Yes, I do,” ses Mrs. Dixon. “You kept out of it for four years to please yourself, and now you can keep out of it to please me.”

“I’ve put you out o’ the bar before,” ses Charlie, “and if you come messing about with me any more I’ll do it agin. So now you know.”

He walked back into the bar whistling, and George Dixon, arter sitting still for a long time thinking, got up and went into the bar, and he’d ’ardly got his foot inside afore Charlie caught ’old of ’im by the shoulder and shoved ’im back into the parlour agin.

“I told you wot it would be,” ses Mrs. Dixon, looking up from ’er sewing. “You’ve only got your interfering ways to thank for it.”

“This is a fine state of affairs in my own ’ouse,” ses Dixon, ’ardly able to speak. “You’ve got no proper feeling for your husband, Julia, else you wouldn’t allow it. Why, I was happier at sea than wot I am ’ere.”

“Well, you’d better go back to it if you’re so fond of it,” ses ’is wife.

“I think I ’ad,” ses Dixon. “If I can’t be master in my own ’ouse I’m better at sea, hard as it is. You must choose between us, Julia—me or your relations. I won’t sleep under the same roof as them for another night. Am I to go?”

“Please yourself,” ses ’is wife. “I don’t mind your staying ’ere so long as you behave yourself, but the others won’t go; you can make your mind easy on that.”

“I’ll go and look for another ship, then,” ses Dixon, taking up ’is cap. “I’m not wanted here. P’r’aps you wouldn’t mind ’aving some clothes packed into a chest for me so as I can go away decent.”

He looked round at ’is wife, as though ’e expected she’d ask ’im not to go, but she took no notice, and he opened the door softly and went out, while old Burge, who ’ad come into the room and ’eard what he was saying, trotted off upstairs to pack ’is chest for ’im.

In two hours ’e was back agin and more cheerful than he ’ad been since he ’ad come ’ome. Bob was in the bar and the others were just sitting down to tea, and a big chest, nicely corded, stood on the floor in the corner of the room.

“That’s right,” he ses, looking at it; “that’s just wot I wanted.”

“It’s as full as it can be,” ses old Burge. “I done it for you myself. ’Ave you got a ship?”

“I ’ave,” ses Dixon. “A jolly good ship. No more hardships for me this time. I’ve got a berth as captain.”

“_Wot?_” ses ’is wife. “Captain? You!”

“Yes,” ses Dixon, smiling at her. “You can sail with me if you like.”

“Thankee,” ses Mrs. Dixon, “I’m quite comfortable where I am.”

“Do you mean to say _you’ve_ got a master’s berth?” ses Charlie, staring at ’im.

“I do,” ses Dixon; “master and owner.”

Charlie coughed. “Wot’s the name of the ship?” he asks, winking at the others.

“The BLUE LION,” ses Dixon, in a voice that made ’em all start. “I’m shipping a new crew and I pay off the old one to-night. You first, my lad.”

“Pay off,” ses Charlie, leaning back in ’is chair and staring at ’im in a puzzled way. “_Blue Lion?_”

“Yes,” ses Dixon, in the same loud voice. “When I came ’ome the other day I thought p’r’aps I’d let bygones be bygones, and I laid low for a bit to see whether any of you deserved it. I went to sea to get hardened—and I got hard. I’ve fought men that would eat you at a meal. I’ve ’ad more blows in a week than you’ve ’ad in a lifetime, you fat-faced land-lubber.”

He walked to the door leading to the bar, where Bob was doing ’is best to serve customers and listen at the same time, and arter locking it put the key in ’is pocket. Then ’e put his ’and in ’is pocket and slapped some money down on the table in front o’ Charlie.

“There’s a month’s pay instead o’ notice,” he ses. “Now git.”

“George!” screams ’is wife. “’Ow dare you? ’Ave you gone crazy?”

“I’m surprised at you,” ses old Burge, who’d been looking on with ’is mouth wide open, and pinching ’imself to see whether ’e wasn’t dreaming.

“I don’t go for your orders,” ses Charlie, getting up. “Wot d’ye mean by locking that door?”

“_Wot!_” roars Dixon. “Hang it! I mustn’t lock a door without asking my barman now. Pack up and be off, you swab, afore I start on you.”

Charlie gave a growl and rushed at ’im, and the next moment ’e was down on the floor with the ’ardest bang in the face that he’d ever ’ad in ’is life. Mrs. Dixon screamed and ran into the kitchen, follered by old Burge, who went in to tell ’er not to be frightened. Charlie got up and went for Dixon agin; but he ’ad come back as ’ard as nails and ’ad a rushing style o’ fighting that took Charlie’s breath away. By the time Bob ’ad left the bar to take care of itself, and run round and got in the back way, Charlie had ’ad as much as ’e wanted and was lying on the sea-chest in the corner trying to get ’is breath.

“Yes? Wot d’ye want?” ses Dixon, with a growl, as Bob came in at the door.

He was such a ’orrible figure, with the blood on ’is face and ’is beard sticking out all ways, that Bob, instead of doing wot he ’ad come round for, stood in the doorway staring at ’im without a word.

“I’m paying off,” ses Dixon. “’Ave you got anything to say agin it?”

“No,” ses Bob, drawing back.

“You and Charlie’ll go now,” ses Dixon, taking out some money. “The old man can stay on for a month to give ’im time to look round. Don’t look at me that way, else I’ll knock your ’ead off.”

He started counting out Bob’s money just as old Burge and Mrs. Dixon, hearing all quiet, came in out of the kitchen.

“Don’t you be alarmed on my account, my dear,” he ses, turning to ’is wife; “it’s child’s play to wot I’ve been used to. I’ll just see these two mistaken young fellers off the premises, and then we’ll ’ave a cup o’ tea while the old man minds the bar.”

Mrs. Dixon tried to speak, but ’er temper was too much for ’er. She looked from her ’usband to Charlie and Bob and then back at ’im agin and caught ’er breath.

“That’s right,” ses Dixon, nodding his ’ead at her. “I’m master and owner of the _Blue Lion_ and you’re first mate. When I’m speaking you keep quiet; that’s dissipline.”

I was in that bar about three months arterward, and I never saw such a change in any woman as there was in Mrs. Dixon. Of all the nice-mannered, soft-spoken landladies I’ve ever seen, she was the best, and on’y to ’ear the way she answered her ’usband when he spoke to ’er was a pleasure to every married man in the bar.

A SPIRIT OF AVARICE

Mr. John Blows stood listening to the foreman with an air of lofty disdain. He was a free-born Englishman, and yet he had been summarily paid off at eleven o’clock in the morning and told that his valuable services would no longer be required. More than that, the foreman had passed certain strictures upon his features which, however true they might be, were quite irrelevant to the fact that Mr. Blows had been discovered slumbering in a shed when he should have been laying bricks.

“Take your ugly face off these ’ere works,” said the foreman; “take it ’ome and bury it in the back-yard. Anybody’ll be glad to lend you a spade.”

Mr. Blows, in a somewhat fluent reply, reflected severely on the foreman’s immediate ancestors, and the strange lack of good-feeling and public spirit they had exhibited by allowing him to grow up.

“Take it ’ome and bury it,” said the foreman again. “Not under any plants you’ve got a liking for.”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Blows, still referring to his foe’s parents, and now endeavouring to make excuses for them—“I s’pose they was so pleased, and so surprised when they found that you _was_ a ’uman being, that they didn’t mind anything else.”

He walked off with his head in the air, and the other men, who had partially suspended work to listen, resumed their labours. A modest pint at the Rising Sun revived his drooping spirits, and he walked home thinking of several things which he might have said to the foreman if he had only thought of them in time.

He paused at the open door of his house and, looking in, sniffed at the smell of mottled soap and dirty water which pervaded it. The stairs were wet, and a pail stood in the narrow passage. From the kitchen came the sounds of crying children and a scolding mother. Master Joseph Henry Blows, aged three, was “holding his breath,” and the family were all aghast at the length of his performance. He re-covered it as his father entered the room, and drowned, without distressing himself, the impotent efforts of the others. Mrs. Blows turned upon her husband a look of hot inquiry.

“I’ve got the chuck,” he said, surlily.

“What, again?” said the unfortunate woman. “Yes, again,” repeated her husband.

Mrs. Blows turned away, and dropping into a chair threw her apron over her head and burst into discordant weeping. Two little Blows, who had ceased their outcries, resumed them again from sheer sympathy.

“Stop it,” yelled the indignant Mr. Blows; “stop it at once; d’ye hear?”

“I wish I’d never seen you,” sobbed his wife from behind her apron. “Of all the lazy, idle, drunken, good-for-nothing——”

“Go on,” said Mr. Blows, grimly.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” declared Mrs. Blows. “Look at your father, my dears,” she continued, taking the apron away from her face; “take a good look at him, and mind you don’t grow up like it.”

Mr. Blows met the combined gaze of his innocent offspring with a dark scowl, and then fell to moodily walking up and down the passage until he fell over the pail. At that his mood changed, and, turning fiercely, he kicked that useful article up and down the passage until he was tired.

“I’ve ’ad enough of it,” he muttered. He stopped at the kitchen-door and, putting his hand in his pocket, threw a handful of change on to the floor and swung out of the house.

Another pint of beer confirmed him in his resolution. He would go far away and make a fresh start in the world. The morning was bright and the air fresh, and a pleasant sense of freedom and adventure possessed his soul as he walked. At a swinging pace he soon left Gravelton behind him, and, coming to the river, sat down to smoke a final pipe before turning his back forever on a town which had treated him so badly.

The river murmured agreeably and the rushes stirred softly in the breeze; Mr. Blows, who could fall asleep on an upturned pail, succumbed to the influence at once; the pipe dropped from his mouth and he snored peacefully.

He was awakened by a choking scream, and, starting up hastily, looked about for the cause. Then in the water he saw the little white face of Billy Clements, and wading in up to his middle he reached out and, catching the child by the hair, drew him to the bank and set him on his feet. Still screaming with terror, Billy threw up some of the water he had swallowed, and without turning his head made off in the direction of home, calling piteously upon his mother.

Mr. Blows, shivering on the bank, watched him out of sight, and, missing his cap, was just in time to see that friend of several seasons slowly sinking in the middle of the river. He squeezed the water from his trousers and, crossing the bridge, set off across the meadows.

His self-imposed term of bachelorhood lasted just three months, at the end of which time he made up his mind to enact the part of the generous husband and forgive his wife everything. He would not go into details, but issue one big, magnanimous pardon.

Full of these lofty ideas he set off in the direction of home again. It was a three-days’ tramp, and the evening of the third day saw him but a bare two miles from home. He clambered up the bank at the side of the road and, sprawling at his ease, smoked quietly in the moonlight.

A waggon piled up with straw came jolting and creaking toward him. The driver sat dozing on the shafts, and Mr. Blows smiled pleasantly as he recognised the first face of a friend he had seen for three months. He thrust his pipe in his pocket and, rising to his feet, clambered on to the back of the waggon, and lying face downward on the straw peered down at the unconscious driver below.

“I’ll give old Joe a surprise,” he said to himself. “He’ll be the first to welcome me back.”

“Joe,” he said, softly. “’Ow goes it, old pal?”

Mr. Joe Carter, still dozing, opened his eyes at the sound of his name and looked round; then, coming to the conclusion that he had been dreaming, closed them again.

“I’m a-looking at you, Joe,” said Mr. Blows, waggishly. “I can see you.”

Mr. Carter looked up sharply and, catching sight of the grinning features of Mr. Blows protruding over the edge of the straw, threw up his arms with a piercing shriek and fell off the shafts on to the road. The astounded Mr. Blows, raising himself on his hands, saw him pick himself up and, giving vent to a series of fearsome yelps, run clumsily back along the road.

“Joe!” shouted Mr. Blows. “J-o-o-oE!”

Mr. Carter put his hands to his ears and ran on blindly, while his friend, sitting on the top of the straw, regarded his proceedings with mixed feelings of surprise and indignation.

“It can’t be that tanner ’e owes me,” he mused, “and yet I don’t know what else it can be. I never see a man so jumpy.”

He continued to speculate while the old horse, undisturbed by the driver’s absence, placidly continued its journey. A mile farther, however, he got down to take the short cut by the fields.

“If Joe can’t look after his ’orse and cart,” he said, primly, as he watched it along the road, “it’s not my business.”

The footpath was not much used at that time of night, and he only met one man. They were in the shadow of the trees which fringed the new cemetery as they passed, and both peered. The stranger was satisfied first and, to Mr. Blows’s growing indignation, first gave a leap backward which would not have disgraced an acrobat, and then made off across the field with hideous outcries.

“If I get ’old of some of you,” said the offended Mr. Blows, “I’ll give you something to holler for.”

He pursued his way grumbling, and insensibly slackened his pace as he drew near home. A remnant of conscience which had stuck to him without encouragement for thirty-five years persisted in suggesting that he had behaved badly. It also made a few ill-bred inquiries as to how his wife and children had subsisted for the last three months. He stood outside the house for a short space, and then, opening the door softly, walked in.

The kitchen-door stood open, and his wife in a black dress sat sewing by the light of a smoky lamp. She looked up as she heard his footsteps, and then, without a word, slid from the chair full length to the floor.

“Go on,” said Mr. Blows, bitterly; “keep it up. Don’t mind me.”

Mrs. Blows paid no heed; her face was white and her eyes were closed. Her husband, with a dawning perception of the state of affairs, drew a mug of water from the tap and flung it over her. She opened her eyes and gave a faint scream, and then, scrambling to her feet, tottered toward him and sobbed on his breast.

“There, there,” said Mr. Blows. “Don’t take on; I forgive you.”

“Oh, John,” said his wife, sobbing convulsively, “I thought you was dead. I thought you was dead. It’s only a fortnight ago since we buried you!”

“_Buried me?_” said the startled Mr. Blows. “_Buried me?_”

“I shall wake up and find I’m dreaming,” wailed Mrs. Blows; “I know I shall. I’m always dreaming that you’re not dead. Night before last I dreamt that you was alive, and I woke up sobbing as if my ’art would break.”

“Sobbing?” said Mr. Blows, with a scowl.

“For joy, John,” explained his wife.

Mr. Blows was about to ask for a further explanation of the mystery when he stopped, and regarded with much interest a fair-sized cask which stood in one corner.

“A cask o’ beer,” he said, staring, as he took a glass from the dresser and crossed over to it. “You don’t seem to ’ave taken much ’arm during my—my going after work.”

“We ’ad it for the funeral, John,” said his wife; “leastways, we ’ad two; this is the second.”

Mr. Blows, who had filled the glass, set it down on the table untasted; things seemed a trifle uncanny.

“Go on,” said Mrs. Blows; “you’ve got more right to it than anybody else. Fancy ’aving you here drinking up the beer for your own funeral.”

“I don’t understand what you’re a-driving at,” retorted Mr. Blows, drinking somewhat gingerly from the glass. “’Ow could there be a funeral without me?”

“It’s all a mistake,” said the overjoyed Mrs. Blows; “we must have buried somebody else. But such a funeral, John; you would ha’ been proud if you could ha’ seen it. All Gravelton followed, nearly. There was the boys’ drum and fife band, and the Ancient Order of Camels, what you used to belong to, turned out with their brass band and banners—all the people marching four abreast and sometimes five.”

Mr. Blows’s face softened; he had no idea that he had established himself so firmly in the affections of his fellow-townsmen.

“Four mourning carriages,” continued his wife, “and the—the hearse, all covered in flowers so that you couldn’t see it ’ardly. One wreath cost two pounds.”

Mr. Blows endeavoured to conceal his gratification beneath a mask of surliness. “Waste o’ money,” he growled, and stooping to the cask drew himself another glass of beer.

“Some o’ the gentry sent their carriages to follow,” said Mrs. Blows, sitting down and clasping her hands in her lap.

“I know one or two that ’ad a liking for me,” said Mr. Blows, almost blushing.

“And to think that it’s all a mistake,” continued his wife. “But I thought it was you; it was dressed like you, and your cap was found near it.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Blows; “a pretty mess you’ve been and made of it. Here’s people been giving two pounds for wreaths and turning up with brass bands and banners because they thought it was me, and it’s all been wasted.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” said his wife. “Little Billy Clements came running ’ome the day you went away and said ’e’d fallen in the water, and you’d gone in and pulled ’im out. He said ’e thought you was drownded, and when you didn’t come ’ome I naturally thought so too. What else could I think?”

Mr. Blows coughed, and holding his glass up to the light regarded it with a preoccupied air.

“They dragged the river,” resumed his wife, “and found the cap, but they didn’t find the body till nine weeks afterward. There was a inquest at the Peal o’ Bells, and I identified you, and all that grand funeral was because they thought you’d lost your life saving little Billy. They said you was a hero.”

“You’ve made a nice mess of it,” repeated Mr. Blows.

“The rector preached the sermon,” continued his wife; “a beautiful sermon it was, too. I wish you’d been there to hear it; I should ’ave enjoyed it ever so much better. He said that nobody was more surprised than what ’e was at your doing such a thing, and that it only showed ’ow little we knowed our fellow-creatures. He said that it proved there was good in all of us if we only gave it a chance to come out.”

Mr. Blows eyed her suspiciously, but she sat thinking and staring at the floor.

“I s’pose we shall have to give the money back now,” she said, at last.

“Money!” said the other; “what money?”

“Money that was collected for us,” replied his wife. “One ’undered and eighty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence.”

Mr. Blows took a long breath. “’Ow much?” he said, faintly; “say it agin.”

His wife obeyed.

“Show it to me,” said the other, in trembling tones; “let’s ’ave a look at it. Let’s ’old some of it.”

“I can’t,” was the reply; “there’s a committee of the Camels took charge of it, and they pay my rent and allow me ten shillings a week. Now I s’pose it’ll have to be given back?”

“Don’t you talk nonsense,” said Mr. Blows, violently. “You go to them interfering Camels and say you want your money—all of it. Say you’re going to Australia. Say it was my last dying wish.”

Mrs. Blows puckered her brow.

“I’ll keep quiet upstairs till you’ve got it,” continued her husband, rapidly. “There was only two men saw me, and I can see now that they thought I was my own ghost. Send the kids off to your mother for a few days.”