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.”