Love? said the night-watchman, as he watched in an
abstracted fashion the efforts of a skipper to reach
a brother skipper on a passing barge with a boathook.
Don’t talk to me about love, because I’ve
suffered enough through it. There ought to be
teetotalers for love the same as wot there is for
drink, and they ought to wear a piece o’ ribbon
to show it, the same as the teetotalers do; but not
an attractive piece o’ ribbon, mind you.
I’ve seen as much mischief caused by love as
by drink, and the funny thing is, one often leads
to the other. Love, arter it is over, often
leads to drink, and drink often leads to love and to
a man committing himself for life afore it is over.
[Illustration: “Don’t talk to me
about love, because I’ve suffered enough through
it.”]
Sailormen give way to it most; they see so little
o’ wimmen that they naturally ’ave a high
opinion of ’em. Wait till they become
night-watchmen and, having to be at ’ome all
day, see the other side of ’em. If people
on’y started life as night-watchmen there wouldn’t
be one ’arf the falling in love that there is
now.
I remember one chap, as nice a fellow as you could
wish to meet, too. He always carried his sweet-heart’s
photograph about with ’im, and it was the on’y
thing that cheered ’im up during the fourteen
years he was cast away on a deserted island.
He was picked up at last and taken ’ome, and
there she was still single and waiting for ’im;
and arter spending fourteen years on a deserted island
he got another ten in quod for shooting ’er
because she ’ad altered so much in ’er
looks.
Then there was Ginger Dick, a red-’aired man
I’ve spoken about before. He went and fell
in love one time when he was lodging in Wapping ’ere
with old Sam Small and Peter Russet, and a nice mess
’e made of it.
They was just back from a v’y’ge, and
they ’adn’t been ashore a week afore both
of ’em noticed a change for the worse in Ginger.
He turned quiet and peaceful and lost ’is taste
for beer. He used to play with ’is food
instead of eating it, and in place of going out of
an evening with Sam and Peter took to going off by
’imself.
“It’s love,” ses Peter Russet, shaking
his ’ead, “and he’ll be worse afore
he’s better.”
“Who’s the gal?” ses old Sam.
Peter didn’t know, but when they came ’ome
that night ’e asked. Ginger, who was sitting
up in bed with a far-off look in ’is eyes, cuddling
’is knees, went on staring but didn’t
answer.
“Who is it making a fool of you this time, Ginger?”
ses old Sam.
“You mind your bisness and I’ll mind mine,”
ses Ginger, suddenly waking up and looking very fierce.
“No offence, mate,” ses Sam, winking at
Peter. “I on’y asked in case I might
be able to do you a good turn.”
“Well, you can do that by not letting her know
you’re a pal o’ mine,” ses Ginger,
very nasty.
