by W. W. Jacobs
Produced by David Widger
ODD CRAFT
By W.W. Jacobs
DIXON'S RETURN
Talking about eddication, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, thefinest eddication you can give a lad is to send 'im to sea. School isall right up to a certain p'int, but arter that comes the sea. I've beenthere myself and I know wot I'm talking about. All that I am I owe to'aving been to sea.
"Talking about eddication, said the night-watchman."]
There's a saying that boys will be boys. That's all right till they goto sea, and then they 'ave to be men, and good men too. They get knockedabout a bit, o' course, but that's all part o' the eddication, and whenthey get bigger they pass the eddication they've received on to otherboys smaller than wot they are. Arter I'd been at sea a year I spent allmy fust time ashore going round and looking for boys wot 'ad knocked meabout afore I sailed, and there was only one out o' the whole lot that Iwished I 'adn't found.
Most people, o' course, go to sea as boys or else not at all, but I mindone chap as was pretty near thirty years old when 'e started. It's agood many years ago now, and he was landlord of a public-'ouse as used tostand in Wapping, called the Blue Lion.
His mother, wot had 'ad the pub afore 'im, 'ad brought 'im up very quietand genteel, and when she died 'e went and married a fine, handsome youngwoman who 'ad got her eye on the pub without thinking much about 'im. Igot to know about it through knowing the servant that lived there. Anice, quiet gal she was, and there wasn't much went on that she didn'thear. 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 thebargain, Mrs. Dixon soon began to lead 'im a terrible life. She wasalways throwing his meekness and mildness up into 'is face, and arterthey 'ad been married two or three years he was no more like the landlordo' that public-'ouse than I'm like a lord. Not so much. She used to getinto such terrible tempers there was no doing anything with 'er, and forthe sake o' peace and quietness he gave way to 'er till 'e got into thehabit 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 'adbeen spending a lot o' time looking for work instead o' doing it, cametoo. They was so comfortable there that their father--a 'ouse-painter bytrade--came round to see whether he couldn't paint the Blue Lion up a bitand 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 ladderholding a brush in one hand and a pot o' paint in the other, and by thetime he 'ad finished painting the 'ouse it was ready to be done all overagin.
I dare say that George Dixon--that was 'is name--wouldn't ha' minded somuch if 'is wife 'ad only been civil, but instead o' that she used tomake fun of 'im and order 'im about, and by-and-by the others began totry the same thing. As I said afore, Dixon was a very quiet man, and ifthere 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 itat last by telling me that somebody 'ad gone off and left a pot o' beerstanding on the pavement. They was both of 'em fairly strong young chapswith a lot of bounce in 'em, and she used to say to her 'usband wot fineyoung 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 upcareful by 'is mother, and keeping a very quiet, respectable 'ouse--Iused it myself--he cert'nly was soft, and I remember 'im telling me oncethat he didn't believe in fighting, and that instead of hitting peopleyou 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 thebar, 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 withrage. "Wot d'ye mean by it?"
"Because you seem to forget who is master 'ere," ses Dixon, in atrembling voice.
"Master?" she ses, firing up. "I'll soon show you who's master. Go outo' 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, "anddon'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' thebar to give a customer change out of 'arf a crown, and ran 'im kickingand struggling into the parlour. George gave 'im a silly little punch inthe chest, and got such a bang on the 'ead back that at fust he thoughtit 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 findingfault 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 theback-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 'ereat all, or your boys neither. Go and give somebody else a treat; I've'ad enough of the whole pack of you."
"'Go and sleep somewhere else, then,' ses Dixon."]
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' thatroom," she said to her 'usband; "mind that."
George Dixon didn't say a word; the shame of it was a'most more than 'ecould 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 satisfyingyou. 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 suityou."
"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 facearter being pushed out o' my own bar."
They kept 'im there all the rest o' the day, and, as 'e was stillobstinate when bedtime came, Mrs. Dixon, who wasn't to be beat, broughtdown some bedclothes and 'ad a bed made up for 'im on the sofa. Some menwould ha' 'ad the police in for less than that, but George Dixon 'ad gota 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-dooron 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 houseand 'ome.
She got another letter two days arterward, saying that he 'ad shipped asordinary seaman on an American barque called the _Seabird,_ bound forCalifornia, 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