Dixon’s Return

"Dixon’s Return" by W. W. Jacobs is a humorous novella centered around the eccentric character of Dixon, who returns to his hometown after a long absence. The story unfolds as Dixon's arrival stirs up memories and mischief among the local residents. Jacobs, known for his wit and keen observations of human nature, crafts a lighthearted narrative filled with quirky characters and comedic situations, ultimately exploring themes of nostalgia and the unpredictability of life. With his signature style, Jacobs invites readers to enjoy the antics and charm of a vibrant coastal community.

• Short story

								
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

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