And so I won my manhood's spurs. My status on the water-front and with
the oyster pirates became immediately excellent. I was looked upon as a
good fellow, as well as no coward. And somehow, from the day I achieved
that concept sitting on the stringer-piece of the Oakland City Wharf, I
have never cared much for money. No one has ever considered me a miser
since, while my carelessness of money is a source of anxiety and worry to
some that know me.
So completely did I break with my parsimonious past that I sent word home
to my mother to call in the boys of the neighbourhood and give to them
all my collections. I never even cared to learn what boys got what
collections. I was a man now, and I made a clean sweep of everything
that bound me to my boyhood.
My reputation grew. When the story went around the water-front of how
French Frank had tried to run me down with his schooner, and of how I had
stood on the deck of the Razzle Dazzle, a cocked double-barrelled shotgun
in my hands, steering with my feet and holding her to her course, and
compelled him to put up his wheel and keep away, the water-front decided
that there was something in me despite my youth. And I continued to show
what was in me. There were the times I brought the Razzle Dazzle in with
a bigger load of oysters than any other two-man craft; there was the time
when we raided far down in Lower Bay, and mine was the only craft back at
daylight to the anchorage off Asparagus Island; there was the Thursday
night we raced for market and I brought the Razzle Dazzle in without a
rudder, first of the fleet, and skimmed the cream of the Friday morning
trade; and there was the time I brought her in from Upper Bay under a
jib, when Scotty burned my mainsail. (Yes; it was Scotty of the Idler
adventure. Irish had followed Spider on board the Razzle Dazzle, and
Scotty, turning up, had taken Irish's place.)
But the things I did on the water only partly counted. What completed
everything, and won for me the title of "Prince of the Oyster Beds," was
that I was a good fellow ashore with my money, buying drinks like a man.
I little dreamed that the time would come when the Oakland water-front,
which had shocked me at first would be shocked and annoyed by the devilry
of the things I did.
But always the life was tied up with drinking. The saloons are poor
men's clubs. Saloons are congregating places. We engaged to meet one
another in saloons. We celebrated our good fortune or wept our grief in
saloons. We got acquainted in saloons.
Can I ever forget the afternoon I met "Old Scratch," Nelson's father? It
was in the Last Chance. Johnny Heinhold introduced us. That Old Scratch
was Nelson's father was noteworthy enough. But there was more in it than
that. He was owner and master of the scow-schooner Annie Mine, and some
day I might ship as a sailor with him. Still more, he was romance. He
was a blue-eyed, yellow-haired, raw-boned Viking, big-bodied and
strong-muscled despite his age. And he had sailed the seas in ships of
all nations in the old savage sailing days.
I had heard many weird tales about him, and worshipped him from a
distance. It took the saloon to bring us together. Even so, our
acquaintance might have been no more than a hand-grip and a word—he was
a laconic old fellow—had it not been for the drinking.
"Have a drink," I said, with promptitude, after the pause which I had
learned good form in drinking dictates. Of course, while we drank our
beer, which I had paid for, it was incumbent on him to listen to me and
to talk to me. And Johnny, like a true host, made the tactful remarks
that enabled us to find mutual topics of conversation. And of course,
having drunk my beer, Captain Nelson must now buy beer in turn. This led
to more talking, and Johnny drifted out of the conversation to wait on
other customers.
The more beer Captain Nelson and I drank, the better we got acquainted.
In me he found an appreciative listener, who, by virtue of book-reading,
knew much about the sea-life he had lived. So he drifted back to his
wild young days, and spun many a rare yarn for me, while we downed beer,
treat by treat, all through a blessed summer afternoon. And it was only
John Barleycorn that made possible that long afternoon with the old
sea-dog.
It was Johnny Heinhold who secretly warned me across the bar that I was
getting pickled and advised me to take small beers. But as long as
Captain Nelson drank large beers, my pride forbade anything else than
large beers. And not until the skipper ordered his first small beer did
I order one for myself. Oh, when we came to a lingering fond farewell, I
was drunk. But I had the satisfaction of seeing Old Scratch as drunk as
I. My youthful modesty scarcely let me dare believe that the hardened
old buccaneer was even more drunk.
And afterwards, from Spider, and Pat, and Clam, and Johnny Heinhold, and
others, came the tips that Old Scratch liked me and had nothing but good
words for the fine lad I was. Which was the more remarkable, because he
was known as a savage, cantankerous old cuss who never liked anybody.
(His very nickname, "Scratch," arose from a Berserker trick of his, in
fighting, of tearing off his opponent's face.) And that I had won his
friendship, all thanks were due to John Barleycorn. I have given the
incident merely as an example of the multitudinous lures and draws and
services by which John Barleycorn wins his followers.
