(He goes off. The noise increases in volume. GEORGE DIXON appears, looks towards the bar, and comes slowly into the room. He is dressed in a shabby jersey, dirty serge trousers, sea-boots, and a sailor’s cap with a broken peak. He is carrying a bundle; is very sunburnt, and looks stouter. CHARLES enters hurriedly.)
Here, what are you up to? Where d’you think you’re going? What d’you want? This ain’t the bar. DIXON (turning). It’s all right.
CHARLES. George! Why, we thought you was drownded.
DIXON. NO, not this time.
CHARLES (in an injured voice). Well, we heard that the “Monarch” was missing with all hands twelve months ago.
DIXON. I got off with two others in a boat. It was ten days before we were picked up.
CHARLES (eyeing him). Well, you don’t seem to have done yourself much good. We all thought you was dead.
DIXON. I was pretty nearly. Ah! I’ve had a terrible time since I left home.
CHARLES. You look it. I’d ha’ been ashamed to come ‘ome like that.
DIXON (leaning against the mantelpiece). I’m worn out. I’ve got no pride left; it’s all been knocked out of me. How’s Julia?
CHARLES. She’s all right. (He shouts.) Here, Ju! DIXON. H’sh! Don’t let her know too suddenly. Break it to her gently.
CHARLES. Fiddlesticks! You don’t think she’s been breaking her ‘art, do you?
DIXON. Where is she? Upstairs?
CHARLES. I believe so.
DIXON. I’ll go up to her.
(He goes out. CHARLES stands gazing after him. Then a wild cry is heard, followed by sounds of somebody falling downstairs. BURGE hobbles in, groaning and dusting himself, followed by DIXON.)
I’m sorry I startled you.
BURGE. SO you ought to be. I thought it was your ghost! I believe you done it a-purpose. My back’s broke. (He hobbles painfully to an easy-chair and sits down.) Charlie!
CHARLES. Yes?
BURGE. Get me a drop o’ brandy. The special. I’m all shook up. (He groans.)
(CHARLES goes into the bar.)
(To DIXON.) Go and get my slipper. It fell off. (DIXON goes out and returns with the slipper. The old man, grunting and groaning, extends his foot, and DIXON puts on the slipper. CHARLES enters with brandy.)
(Drinking.) A-ah!
(CHARLES takes the empty glass, and goes back into the bar.) DIXON. Better?
BURGE. NO; my back’s broke, and all your silly fault. You run away from a good home and the best wife in Wapping and come back and frighten people ‘arf out of their lives. I never see such a fellow. You go away for three years, and you ain’t in the ‘ouse for two minutes afore you start upsetting people ag’in. If I’m a ‘elpless cripple for the rest o’ my days it’ll be all your silly fault.
(BOB appears from the bar.)
BOB. Well, well! Wonders’ll never cease. I thought Charlie was trying to pull my leg. Had a good time, George?
BURGE. He’s broke my back. I met ‘im on the stairs, and I thought ‘e was his own ghost. I fell from top to bottom. I wonder you didn’t ‘ear me.
BOB. I did, but I was busy serving. Business afore pleasure, you know.
BURGE (exploding). Pleasure! Pleas —
BOB. Does poor Julia know the happy news?
DIXON. NO.
BOB. All right. I’ll break it to ‘er.
(He goes out.)
(Off.) Julia! Ju-li-a! There’s a gentleman to see you. (Pause.) Eh! No, come right down; it’s only George.
(He re-enters, grinning.)
She won’t fall downstairs.
(MRS. DIXON comes in.)
MRS. DIXON. Good gracious! Whoever’d ha’ thought of seeing you again. Where have you sprung from? I thought Bob was having a game with me.
DIXON. It’s not much to make a joke about. Ain’t you glad to see me, Julia?
MRS. DIXON (deliberately). Ye-s — I suppose so.
DIXON. Aren’t you glad that I am not drowned?
MRS. DIXON. Of course I am. (Pause.) I don’t like to think of anybody being drowned. Even kittens.
DIXON. YOU are glad to see me back?
MRS. DIXON (coldly). Yes, if you are going to behave yourself. But first of all I should like to know what you’ve got to say for yourself for running away from me for three years. You stayed away to please yourself, and then, on top of that, you kept writing letters to me to get rid of my uncle and cousins, who were looking after me.
DIXON (moving slowly towards her). That’s a long time ago, Julia. I’ve gone through a great deal of suffering since then. I’ve been knocked about till I hadn’t got any feeling left in me. I’ve been shipwrecked — ten days in an open boat.
BURGE. I knew a man who ‘ad six weeks of it once, but ‘e didn’t seem to think much of it. Playing cards most of the time.
DIXON. Another time I had to fight for my life in New Guinea. Got a spear in my side. (He moves his arm towards his wife’s waist.)
MRS. DIXON (edging away). Nobody asked you to run away. You’d better go and put some decent clothes on. You don’t look over and above respectable.
DIXON (slowly). I’ve been thinking of you and of seeing you again ever since I went away, Julia. You would be the same to me if you were dressed in rags. (MRS. DIXON tosses her head and sits down. DIXON seats himself.)
BURGE (fondly). She’d look all right even if she was dressed in rags, Julia would. You don’t look as though you picked up any money at sea, George.
DIXON. NO; I picked up other things instead.
BOB. What sort of things?
DIXON. Accidents and blows, and things o’ that sort.
BURGE. It’s all eddication, George — looked at properly.
DIXON. I suppose I happened to have bad luck.
BOB (with a short laugh). P’r’aps they knew you wouldn’t ‘it back.
DIXON. P’r’aps that was it. The worst time I had was in an American whaler. If you’d seen me there, Julia, I think you would have been sorry for me.
MRS. DIXON. Why should I? It was all your own silly fault. The sea is all right for men, and if you chose to go you might have known what would happen.
BURGE (explaining). It’s meant for men like Charlie, not men like you, George. It wants a man who can stick up for ‘imself.
(CHARLES appears in the doorway.)
DIXON. Yes, I found that out very soon. Ah, it’s good to be home again: easy-chairs and my own snug little bar.
CHARLES. YOU brought it all on yourself. You’ve only got yourself to blame for it. I ‘ad thought of picking a bone with you over all those letters you wrote.
BURGE. Let bygones be bygones, Charlie. Let’s ‘ope he ‘as come back more sensible than wot he was when ‘e went away.
BOB. There’s no ‘arm in ‘oping.
CHARLES. And what about the snug little bar, Julia? MRS. DIXON. Eh! Oh, yes, of course — George can go in there when he has begged my pardon and Uncle’s. DIXON (amazed). Eh!
MRS. DIXON. YOU heard what I said. When you have begged my pardon you can go into the bar, and not before.
DIXON (stammering). You — you mean I — I’m not to go into my own bar?
MRS. DIXON. Yes, I do. You kept out of it for three years to please yourself, and now you can keep out of it to please me.
BOB. TO oblige a lady.
DIXON. And suppose I do go?
MRS. DIXON. Charlie’ll see to that.
CHARLES. He will that. I’ve put you out of the bar before, and if you come there messing about I’ll do it ag’in. So now you know.
(Voices are heard in the bar. CHARLES goes out. DIXON and his wife eye each other; then DIXON gets up, and in a casual fashion goes into the bar. He reappears suddenly, violently propelled by CHARLES. He resumes his seat in silence, and looks at his wife.)
MRS. DIXON. I told you what it would be. You’ve only got your silly interfering ways to thank for it.
BURGE (shaking his head). You’re too fond of having your own way, George. Give and take,
that’s my motter.
DIXON (to his wife). This is a nice thing to come home for. Three years of hardship for nothing. You’ve got no proper feeling for me, Julia. Why, I was happier at sea than I am here.
MRS. DIXON. Well, you’d better go back to it if you’re so fond of it. I shan’t prevent you.
DIXON (slowly). I think I had. If I can’t be master in my own home I’m better at sea — hard as it is. You must chose between us, Julia — me or your relations. I won’t sleep under the same roof as them for a single night. Am I to go?
MRS. DIXON. Please yourself. I don’t mind your staying here so long as you behave yourself, but the others won’t go; you can make your mind easy on that.
DIXON. I had hoped you had altered, Julia — I thought you were better. As it is, I’ll go and get another berth. I’m not wanted here. P’r’aps you wouldn’t mind having some clothes packed into a chest for me so as I can go away decent.
(He rises and looks at his wife. Then he walks slowly out, passing the bar. CHARLES appears from the bar and stands looking after him.)
CHARLES (coming into the room). I thought ‘e was coming into the bar, but I suppose he thought better of it.
BOB. He’s gone off to sea ag’in. We ain’t good enough for ‘im.
BURGE. He’s got a nasty temper ‘as George.
CHARLES (looking towards MRS. DIXON). Fancy going away and leaving a wife like that. Some people don’t know when they’re well off.
BURGE. He ain’t grateful enough for ‘is mercies. Nobody could ‘ave a more comfortable ‘ome than wot this is; and I know wot I am talking about, mind you.
(Tapping is heard in the bar. BOB goes out.)
MRS. DIXON. Well, if he prefers the sea he can have it. I shan’t stop him.
(DIXON returns.)
DIXON (cheerfully). Well, everybody happy?
MRS. DIXON. What have you come back for? Have you forgotten anything l DIXON. NO.
CHARLES. I thought you were going to look for another berth.
DIXON. Yes. I’ve got it.
MRS. DIXON. What? Why, you haven’t been gone a minute.
DIXON (seating himself) Quite long enough. I’ve got a jolly good ship this time. I had it all arranged before I went out. No more hardships for me now. I’ve got a berth as captain.
MRS. DIXON. What! Captain! You! (She laughs derisively.)
DIXON (jovially). Yes. You can sail with me if you like.
MRS. DIXON. Thank you — I’m quite comfortable where I am.
CHARLES (staring at him). Do you mean to say you’ve got a master’s berth?
DIXON (smiling). I do; master and owner.
CHARLES (winking at MRS. DIXON and tapping his forehead significantly). Wot’s the name of the ship?
DIXON (springing up and speaking in a new, loud, commanding voice.) The “Blue Lion.” I’m shipping a new crew and I pay off the old one to-night. You first, my lad.
CHARLES (puzzled). Pay off? “Blue Lion”!
DIXON (roaring). “Blue Lion,” I said. Are you deaf, you spotty-faced son of a gun?
BURGE. George! George! I’m surprised at you. You ain’t yourself.
DIXON. I’ll surprise you more before I have done with you. When I came home I thought perhaps I’d let bygones be bygones, and I laid low 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 that pup (nodding at CHARLES) at a meal. I’ve had more blows in a week than he’s had in all his silly life.
(He walks to the door leading to the bar and fastens it.
Then he takes money from his pocket and slaps it on the table before CHARLES.)
There’s a month’s pay instead of notice. Now git!
MRS. DIXON (screaming). George! How dare you! Have you gone crazy?
BURGE (trembling). Don’t excite ‘im, my dear. He’ll be all right in a minute.
CHARLES (coming closer). I don’t go for your orders. Wot d’you mean by locking that door? What d’you think you’re up to?
DIXON (ferociously). What! Damn it! I mustn’t lock a door without asking my barman now. Pack up and be off, you swab, before I start on you.
(CHARLES rushes at him, aims a blow, and receives one on the chin that floors him. He is up again in an instant, only to be knocked down again. MRS. DIXON, followed by BURGE, hurries off by the kitchen door. CHARLES gets up more cautiously. They fight above the table, but DIXON is fighting like a tornado, and CHARLES is put down by another heavy blow and remains sitting on the floor.)
Get up! Get up, you Dago! you haven’t had half enough. Why, I haven’t begun yet.
(An imperative tapping is heard on the door leading to the bar. DIXON, glancing at the recumbent CHARLES, throws it open. BOB enters.)
(Growling.) Yes! What do you want?
BOB (glancing in dismay at CHARLES). NO — nothing! DIXON. I’m paying off. Have you got anything to say against it?
BOB (drawing back). No.
DIXON (longingly). Quite sure? Don’t speak before you think, you know.
BOB. Certain.
DIXON (taking out money and counting it.) You and Charlie’ll go now. The old man can stay for a month to give him time to look for a job. Don’t look at me like that, else I’ll knock your head off.
(He slaps the money on the table. BOB pockets it. BURGE and MRS. DIXON return.)
Don’t you be alarmed on my account, my dear. It’s child’s play to what I’ve been used to. I’ve polished off a couple of better men before breakfast, just to give me an appetite.
(MRS. DIXON looks from one to the other, and tries to speak, but fails.)
(Nodding at her.) That’s right. I’m master and owner of the “Blue Lion,” and you’re first mate. When I’m speaking, you keep quiet. That’s dis-sipline! Burge! BURGE. Ye-yes!
DIXON. Sir, when you speak to me. Go in and mind the bar while the missus gets me a cup of tea.
(BURGE looks at MRS. DIXON, then shambles off.)
MRS. DIXON (in a fury, addressing CHARLES). Get up! What are you sitting there for?
(CHARLES rises slowly, tenderly holding his jaw. He takes the money from the table and moves to the door, followed by BOB.)
DIXON (sternly). Get a move on. I give you an hour to pack and clear off.
(CHARLES and BOB slowly go out. DIXON seats himself.)
MRS. DIXON (breathlessly). You — you —
DIXON (kindly). Sit down, Mr. Mate.
(MRS. DIXON draws herself up and regards him offensively.)
(Slapping his right leg.) Sit here. You’ll be the first — for a month.
(MRS. DIXON makes a choking gasping noise, walks stiffly across, and plumps on his knee as stiff as a ramrod. DIXON puts his arm round her waist.)
That’s better. We’re off on a new cruise, with me on the bridge. Savvy?
CURTAIN.
DOUBLE DEALING
A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
SCENE. — MR. EVANS’S living-room.
There is a door leading from outside in the right of the hack wall; another door is in the left wall. There is a fireplace above this latter door, with a mirror over the mantel. Usual furniture, a large shell on a small table; a seascape on glass. Bright ornaments, brass candlesticks, etc etc. There is a table in the centre of the room. The window is in the left of the back wall.
The stage is empty when the CURTAIN rises, but a heated argument is heard off. Then the door from the street is opened and FRED CARTER, violently protesting, is thrust into the room by EVANS and his son.
EVANS (to CARTER). SO far, so good. Just as well for you you came quiet.
FRED. I came of my own free will. Now perhaps you’ll tell me what it is all about.
EVANS. DO you call yourself a man?
FRED. I don’t call myself anything. I think you’ve both gone dotty. I keep telling you that you are mistaking me for somebody else. Now perhaps you’ll tell me who you think I am and what you think I’ve been doing.
EVANS (thrusting
his face into FRED’S). You’re supposed to have come courting my daughter, Mr. Somebody Else, and, after getting her promise to marry you, nipping off to London to make arrangements for the wedding. She’s been mourning you for four years now, having an idea you’d been made away with.
JACK. Being true to your memory, you skunk!
EVANS. And won’t look at decent chaps that want to marry her.
FRED (impatiently). I keep on telling you it’s all a mistake. I came down here for the first time in my life this morning, for my fortnight’s holiday. If I were the man you take me for, do you think I should come down here? Try and have a little sense.
EVANS (raging). If you talk to me like that I’ll knock your head off.
FRED. YOU might try.
JACK (pushing in front of his father). Let me have a go at him. When I’ve finished, his own mother won’t know him.
EVANS (growling). No. Stop it. If you knock him about, how is she going to recognize him?
JACK. Well, I could give him one where it won’t show. Just under the chin, say.
FRED. When I’m not looking, I suppose. That’s the only way you could do it. I can’t help your making mistakes, but I can help your putting your hands on me.
EVANS. Mistake! Old Dan Smith recognized you. He nodded at you, and you nodded back.
FRED. I nodded back without thinking, just out of politeness. It was just automatic.
EVANS. Auto — auto; look here, we don’t want language of that sort in this house.
FRED (suddenly). By Jove!
EVANS. What’s the matter now?
FRED (in consternation). I was just thinking. Suppose she makes the same silly mistake you’ve made? Good Lord!
JACK (to EVANS). Keeps it up pretty well, don’t he?
FRED. But suppose she does? Where shall I be? You can’t go out into the street and fetch in sons-in-law like that, you know — I believe it’s a plant. You want to get a husband for a girl that can’t get one for herself. But you won’t get me.
EVANS (threatening him). That’s enough. You keep a still tongue in your head, else I’ll knock it off.
FRED. If you think you can kidnap me you’re jolly well mistaken. If your daughter wants to get married, let her go out and find a young man herself. Not set you to do it.
(He rushes to the street door and opens it; both men seize him roughly and drag him back. They have a long tussle.)
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 303
