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.”

[Illustration:  “‘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’ 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 down some bedclothes and ’ad a bed made up for ’im on the sofa.  Some men would ha’ ’ad the police in for less than that, but George Dixon ’ad got a 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-door on 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 house and ’ome.

She got another letter two days arterward, saying that he ’ad shipped as ordinary seaman on an American barque called the Seabird, bound for California, and that ’e expected to be away a year, or thereabouts.