Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  MR. DAWSON. Eyes, the sort of eyes, like, (triumphantly) like eyes —

  MRS. DAWSON (tossing her head). If you are going to marry a young woman with brown eyes, well, it’s your fate and it can’t be avoided. The gipsy knows what she is talking about.

  MR. FOSS. I expect she only said it to please him, Mrs. Dawson.

  MR. DAWSON (turning on him violently). Look here, Charlie Foss —

  MRS. DAWSON. Blustering is no good. That won’t mend matters. If I’m to go, I’m to go, that’s all.

  FLORA. Mother!

  MRS. DAWSON (chokingly). If it makes your father happy —

  FLORA. Oh, Mother! (She clings to her.)

  MRS. DAWSON. I’ve been a good wife, still, perhaps I might have been better. Perhaps number two will be. Pity I can’t go soon.

  MR. DAWSON (gulping). But, that’s the worst of it! That’s what makes it so hard. That’s what’s worrying me. That’s the awful part of it.

  MRS. DAWSON. What is?

  MR. DAWSON (moistening his lips with his tongue). That is.

  MRS. DAWSON. Speak plain English.

  MR. DAWSON (stammering). The gipsy said — said you’re to die before three months are out — and I’m to be married to this young woman three months afterwards.

  MRS. DAWSON (mechanically, and trying to avoid the glittering eye of MR. FOSS). Three! Three! Three months?

  MR. FOSS (in a soothing voice). Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Dawson. She’s an old swindler. I don’t believe it; and, besides, we — shall — soon — see! Three months’ll soon pass away, and if she’s wrong about that and you are not dead by then, perhaps she’s wrong about other things. Perhaps I shan’t get five years for bigamy and perhaps Flora won’t marry a fair man with millions of money and motor-cars.

  MR. DAWSON (hopefully). No, perhaps she is wrong, after all, Mother.

  (MRS. DAWSON turns and looks at them like a woman at hay. Then with an incoherent cry she dashes off into the kitchen. Sounds of falling articles are heard.)

  (Gaping.) She’s smashing up the ‘ome.

  (MR. FOSS places his arm about FLORA’S waist, and she puts her head on his shoulder. Noises continue.)

  FLORA. GO to her, Father!

  MR. FOSS (tenderly adjusting FLORA’S head on his shoulder). I really think you ought to, Mr. Dawson.

  (MR. DAWSON hesitates. Then he walks slowly to the kitchen door. As he reaches it there is a tremendous crash and he hastily jumps hack.)

  MR. DAWSON (coming back). Perhaps she’d sooner be alone.

  CURTAIN.

  DIXON’S RETURN

  A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

  SCENE. — A room behind the bar of the “Blue Lion.”

  There is a window in the centre of the back wall, with casement curtains, giving on to the bar; a door right of it, leading to the bar. There is another door in the left wall. The right wall contains a fireplace. Sporting prints and stuffed animals are on the walls. There is a table, a sofa, easy-chairs, gaudy vases, etc. When the CURTAIN goes up, MR. JOSIAH BURGE, dressed in painter’s white overalls, is seen sitting in an easy-chair by the fire, dozing. Raised voices are heard in the bar, and MRS. DIXON enters hastily, by the door from the bar.

  MRS. DIXON (fiercely). A little more of it, and something will happen; George’ll go too far one of these days.

  BURGE. What’s he been doing now?

  MRS. DIXON. Oh, nothing; only interfering with Charlie, as usual.

  BURGE. What a pity it is he ‘as got such a nasty dispersition. ‘Ow comfortable and happy we all might be. I’ve got ‘arf an idea, ‘arf an idea, mind you, that he don’t like me and Charlie and Bob being ‘ere. He as good as said so only yesterday.

  MRS. DIXON. Oh, don’t he! Well, he’ll find out that it’s what I want, not what he wants, that goes here.

  BURGE (shaking his head). I can’t understand it. It’s saving ‘im money. I work myself to skin and bone painting this ‘ouse. If there’s another pub in Wapping painted as well as the “Blue Lion,” I ain’t seen it, that’s all. He don’t know when ‘e’s well off.

  MRS. DIXON. The sooner he finds out, the better.

  BURGE. And if he didn’t ‘ave Charlie and Bob in the bar he’d ‘ave to ‘ave other people. People he couldn’t trust. I never see such a man. Never!

  MRS. DIXON. That’s all right, Uncle. If he’s going to get nasty with my relations, he’d better go and live somewhere else. They’re good enough for me, and if they’re not good enough for him that’s his fault. If he don’t like it he can lump it.

  (She picks up a jug from the table and goes out. GEORGE DIXON comes in from the bar. He is a quiet-looking man of middle height, dressed in a lounge suit. He looks at the chair in which BURGE is sitting, and takes another.)

  DIXON. Where’s Julia?

  BURGE. She’s just gone into the kitchen. Upset a bit, I think.

  DIXON (briefly). Oh!

  BURGE (sighing). Yes. Women is delikit creatures, George. They ‘ave to be handled gentle. Given in to, so to speak. If they don’t get their own way it makes ’em ill; then there’s the expense of a doctor’s bill.

  (MRS. DIXON comes in from the kitchen.)

  MRS. DIXON. Oh, I thought you were looking after the bar.

  DIXON. Charlie and Bob are there.

  MRS. DIXON. I know, but surely they can’t manage it properly without you to give them advice.

  DIXON. I don’t want them to be rude to the customers, if that’s what you mean. This has always been a well-kept house, with a steady, quiet trade, and I don’t want betting slips and things of that sort.

  MRS. DIXON. YOU don’t want! H’m! And what about what I want?

  DIXON. You ought to want what I want — you’re my wife.

  MRS. DIXON (scornfully). You’re too namby-pamby to keep a public house. You ought to be running a sweet-stuff shop. It takes a man to keep a public.

  BURGE (nodding). A man what can use his fists, George. You ought to ha’ seen the way Charlie handled that carman last night. It done my ‘art good to see ‘im.

  DIXON. The man was all right; he would have gone with a little persuasion. I’m a peaceful man. There’s no need for violence; I can run my house without that.

  MRS. DIXON (contemptuously). Safer, too, isn’t it? I suppose if Charlie wasn’t here I should have to put them out myself. One thing is, I could do it better than you could.

  DIXON. I didn’t do it, because I don’t want to do it. I never used to have any trouble here, and I’m not going to now. If Charlie can’t obey orders, he’ll have to go.

  MRS. DIXON (justly amazed). What! Oh, hold me, uncle; I’m going to laugh. (She giggles.)

  BURGE (shaking his head). You shouldn’t say things like that, George. Not even in joke. It might be misunderstood.

  DIXON. I’m not joking.

  MRS. DIXON. Neither am I.

  BURGE (shaking his head). Now, now! Why can’t you be quiet and peaceable? 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, George.

  DIXON. GO and sleep somewhere else, then. I don’t want you here at all, or your boys, either. Go and give somebody else a treat; I’ve had enough of the whole pack of you.

  MRS. DIXON (screaming). George! How dare you?

  DIXON. Well, I don’t want them here. I’ve had enough of them. If they haven’t got the sense to behave properly, they can go.

  MRS. DIXON. They’ll go when I tell them, and not before.

  DIXON. Hold your tongue.

  MRS. DIXON (frantically). What!

  DIXON. Remember who you’re speaking to.

  MRS. DIXON. HOW dare you talk to me like that? What d’you mean by it?

  DIXON (shakily). Because you seem to forget who is master here. You all do.

  MRS. DIXON. Master! I’ll soon show you who is master. You’ll beg my pardon, and Uncle’s, too, before you go into your bar again. (She calls.) Charli
e!

  (CHARLES appears from the bar. He is in shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, and wears a tie with a big pin in it. He is a tall man with a large fair moustache.)

  CHARLES. Hallo!

  MRS. DIXON. The master has been insulting me, and he (indicating DIXON with her hand) is not to go into the bar again until he has begged my pardon. D’you understand?

  CHARLES (grinning). Righto!

  MRS. DIXON. If he tries to go in, push him out. DIXON. What? (To CHARLES.) YOU try it. BURGE. NOW, now! Why not beg her pardon, George, and ‘ave done with it? It ain’t nice for Charlie, you know. He don’t want to ‘urt you.

  CHARLES. I don’t mind. (He smirks.) I always like to oblige a lady.

  BURGE (chuckling). Always took after ‘is father, Charlie did.

  (An impatient tapping of a coin on the bar counter is heard.)

  CHARLES. All right, coming. Are you dying of thirst, or wot?

  (CHARLES goes into the bar. DIXON goes slowly to the bar door. BURGE and MRS. DIXON watch him expectantly. He stands for a second or two with his head turned in the direction of the bar, and then walks back into the room.)

  MRS. DIXON (tauntingly). Did you think better of it?

  (DIXON makes no reply. He seats himself and takes up a paper.)

  When you’ve begged my pardon and Uncle’s, you can go, and not before.

  BURGE. He needn’t trouble about me, my dear. I’m used to being put upon. I dare say when ‘e comes to think it over he’ll be sorry ‘e spoke like that, and that’s enough for me. I don’t bear no malice.

  MRS. DIXON. You’re too kind-hearted, Uncle.

  BURGE (gently). That’s better than being ‘ard-’earted, my dear. Give and take’s my motter.

  DIXON (lowering his paper). You can take all right.

  MRS. DIXON (fiercely). You’d better be careful what you say. You’d better think before you speak.

  DIXON (slowly). I am thinking. I’m wondering whether to let you have your own way or to have mine.

  MRS. DIXON. Oh! How would you get your own way?

  DIXON. Well, I could pay Charlie and Bob off and send them away.

  MRS. DIXON. In-deed! And suppose they wouldn’t go. P’r’aps you hadn’t thought of that.

  DIXON (slowly). Oh, yes I had. I can always pay off a servant, and, if he’s foolish enough not to go, have him put out by the police.

  MRS. DIXON (violently). You coward! You coward!

  DIXON (mildly). Mr. Burge, too.

  MRS. DIXON. Well, I go with them, then. Mind that! And I won’t take a penny from you, either. I’d starve first. Starve!

  DIXON. Yes, I was thinking of that, too. I believe you would. But you needn’t be alarmed; I shall not get the police. You won’t have to starve.

  BURGE (much relieved). I will say this for George. If he says a thing he sticks to it. Besides, look how bad it would look, police in a respectable ‘ouse. (He shudders.) Why, it would be common. Think of the talk there would be. waist with his arms pinned to his sides. Guffaws are heard from the bar. BOB appears in the doorway, grinning.)

  CHARLES (puffing). Where’ll you have ‘im, Julia? ‘Strewth, he’s as strong as a boy of fourteen.

  MRS. DIXON (to her husband). I told you what would happen. When you’ve begged my pardon and Uncle’s you can go into the bar again, and not before.

  DIXON (as CHARLES releases him and stands watching him). I’m not going into the bar again. (He sits down.)

  CHARLES. NO, you won’t.

  DIXON (to his wife). I’ve been a good husband to you, Julia, but there’s no satisfying you. You ought to have married somebody that would have knocked you about, and then you’d ha’ been happy.

  CHARLES. Nobody ‘ud knock her about while I’m here.

  BURGE (fondly). He don’t know ‘is own strength. Pluck and strength, that’s Charlie.

  DIXON (to his wife). I’m fond of a quiet life, and as I can’t get it here I’ll get it somewhere else. I leave you in charge. Take care they don’t eat you out of house and home.

  CHARLES (ferociously). That’s enough. Any more of that and I’ll knock your head off.

  BOB. If he don’t, I will.

  DIXON (quietly). Why not both do it? But even the two of you couldn’t manage that lighterman yesterday. How many pints of my beer did you give the policeman you sent for?

  BOB (hastily). He was passing at the time.

  CHARLES (scowling). And happened to look in.

  (DIXON laughs. CHARLES moves towards him.)

  MRS. DIXON (peremptorily). That’ll do.

  (CHARLES stops.)

  When are you going away, George?

  DIXON. NOW.

  MRS. DIXON. Where to?

  DIXON. TO sea.

  (There is a shout of laughter. BOB, still laughing, goes into the bar.)

  MRS. DIXON (hotly). I asked you a sensible question, and I expect a sensible answer.

  DIXON (mildly). I’ve told you; I’m going to sea. I want a little fresh air — and change.

  BURGE (nodding). That’s a very good idea of yours, George. I’ve often thought I’d like to go myself, if I was younger.

  MRS. DIXON (tossing her head). You’ll soon wish yourself home again.

  DIXON (eyeing her very steadily). No, I don’t think so.

  BURGE. Did you say you was going now, George?

  DIXON. Yes.

  BURGE (rising from his chair). P’r’aps you’d like me to ‘elp you to pack. I’ve always been a good hand at packing. Got a gift for it, so to speak.

  DIXON. I can do it. (He turns to his wife.) I’ll have that small chest if you won’t be wanting it.

  MRS. DIXON (offhandedly). I don’t want it, at present. How long are you going to be away?

  DIXON. Might be months, might be years. But if you think you’ll want it, I’ll get another.

  MRS. DIXON (in a hard voice). No; you can have it. For twenty years, if you want it. I’ll pack your things for you, if you like — with pleasure.

  DIXON. Thanks. I’ll send for it in the morning.

  BURGE (anxiously). And suppose you don’t get a ship?

  DIXON. I can get a ship all right. I know of a berth I can have for the asking. Where’s my hat?

  (He goes into the kitchen.)

  MRS. DIXON. I suppose he thinks I shall ask him not to go. Well, he’s mistaken.

  BURGE (unctuously). It’ll do ‘im good. It’s all for the best. It’s a ‘ard life is the sea, and he’ll appreciate his ‘ome when he comes back again. He don’t know when ‘e’s well off — that’s the trouble. It’s as comfortable a ‘ome as a man could wish to ‘ave.

  (DIXON returns with his coat and hat on.)

  DIXON. Well, good-bye. (He turns to MRS. DIXON.) By the way, if that lighterman comes in here making more trouble, you’d better send for the police. It would be a pity for Charlie to be hanged for murder.

  CHARLES (moving towards him). I don’t want any of your lip.

  (DIXON goes through the bar door without looking back.)

  BURGE (shaking his head). He’s got a nasty tongue. CHARLES (scowling). He’ll lose that at sea, all right.

  The CURTAIN is lowered to denote a lapse of three years.

  (When the CURTAIN rises, MRS. DIXON is discovered sitting by the table, with a work-basket, darning a sock of somewhat startling pattern. The voice of CHARLES is heard in the bar saying, “Bye-bye. Be good.” He comes in.)

  CHARLES. Bus’ness ain’t what it used to be. People seem to be forgetting that mouths was made for beer.

  MRS. DIXON. We’re doing very well; it always is dull of an afternoon. I can’t think how you get such holes in your socks. I believe you do it on purpose.

  CHARLES (tenderly). Yes, just for the pleasure of seing you mending ’em.

  MRS. DIXON. That’ll do. I don’t want any more of that talk. I’ve told you so before.

  CHARLES. Are you going to be a widow all your life? MRS. DIXON. If I want to. Besides, I don’t know that I am a widow.

&
nbsp; CHARLES. Well, the ship’s been missing for a year. I should think that’s good enough.

  MRS. DIXON. Bad enough, you mean.

  CHARLES. And he’s been away three. Three whole years. If he’d wanted to come back he’d have come before. Then he wouldn’t ‘ave been drownded. If I’d been in his shoes I shouldn’t ‘ave stayed away all that time. I couldn’t, not if I tried.

  MRS. DIXON (angrily, putting down the sock.) That’ll do, I tell you. When I want talk of that kind I’ll go somewhere else for it. I’m quite comfortable as I am; I’m master here, and I always will be; I don’t want any man to order me about, I’ve had it once and I don’t want any more of it.

  CHARLES (staring). Ordering you about? Who? George never did, I’ll swear.

  MRS. DIXON. He tried to.

  CHARLES ( justly amazed). When?

  MRS. DIXON. When we were first married. (Pause.) The first fortnight.

  CHARLES. Did you do what he told you to?

  MRS. DIXON. NO, but I pretended to. Poor George! Let us hope he is happier where he is.

  CHARLES (with conviction). I’m sure he is.

  MRS. DIXON (hotly). Oh, indeed! You seem to know a lot.

  (BOB comes in from the kitchen.)

  BOB. Hallo, you two! Quarrelling again? You remind me of a couple o’ love-birds that don’t know what’s expected of ’em.

  MRS. DIXON. That’ll do. When I want your remarks I’ll ask for ’em.

  CHARLES (growling). Same here.

  BOB (going to the bar door). All right; don’t forget to ask. There’s plenty more where that one came from.

  (He goes out.)

  CHARLES. He talks too much.

  MRS. DIXON. He’s not the only one. And if I hear any more from either of you there’ll be trouble. You keep your place, and I’ll keep mine. If you don’t, you won’t.

  CHARLES (puzzled). Won’t what?

  MRS. DIXON. Keep your place.

  (Several voices are heard in the bar.)

  What about giving Bob a hand in the bar? I’m going upstairs for a rest.

  (She picks up her work-basket, etc., and goes out. CHARLES stands for a second or two, gazing after her. He then walks to the bar door.)

  CHARLES (head turned towards the bar.) Not so much noise, there. This is a public-house, not a Mothers’ Meeting.