"But women," I suggested, when he had finished proclaiming booze the sole
end of existence.
"Wimmen!" He thumped his pot upon the bar and orated eloquently. "Wimmen
is a thing my edication 'as learnt me t' let alone. It don't pay, matey;
it don't pay. Wot's a man like me want o' wimmen, eh? jest you tell me.
There was my mar, she was enough, a-bangin' the kids about an' makin' the
ole man mis'rable when 'e come 'ome, w'ich was seldom, I grant. An' fer
w'y? Becos o' mar! She didn't make 'is 'ome 'appy, that was w'y. Then,
there's the other wimmen, 'ow do they treat a pore stoker with a few
shillin's in 'is trouseys? A good drunk is wot 'e's got in 'is pockits,
a good long drunk, an' the wimmen skin 'im out of his money so quick 'e
ain't 'ad 'ardly a glass. I know. I've 'ad my fling, an' I know wot's
wot. An' I tell you, where's wimmen is trouble--screechin' an' carryin'
on, fightin', cuttin', bobbies, magistrates, an' a month's 'ard labour
back of it all, an' no pay-day when you come out."
"But a wife and children," I insisted. "A home of your own, and all
that. Think of it, back from a voyage, little children climbing on your
knee, and the wife happy and smiling, and a kiss for you when she lays
the table, and a kiss all round from the babies when they go to bed, and
the kettle singing and the long talk afterwards of where you've been and
what you've seen, and of her and all the little happenings at home while
you've been away, and--"
"Garn!" he cried, with a playful shove of his fist on my shoulder.
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