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.”