Chapter VIII

by Jack London

　　We met by appointment, early Monday morning, to complete the deal,in Johnny Heinhold's "Last Chance "--a saloon, of course, for thetransactions of men. I paid the money over, received the bill ofsale, and French Frank treated. This struck me as an evidentcustom, and a logical one--the seller, who receives, the money, towet a piece of it in the establishment where the trade wasconsummated. But, to my surprise, French Frank treated the house.He and I drank, which seemed just; but why should Johnny Heinhold,who owned the saloon and waited behind the bar, be invited todrink? I figured it immediately that he made a profit on the verydrink he drank. I could, in a way, considering that they werefriends and shipmates, understand Spider and Whisky Bob beingasked to drink; but why should the longshoremen, Bill Kelley andSoup Kennedy, be asked?

　　Then there was Pat, the Queen's brother, making a total of eightof us. It was early morning, and all ordered whisky. What couldI do, here in this company of big men, all drinking whisky?"Whisky," I said, with the careless air of one who had said it athousand times. And such whisky! I tossed it down. A-r-r-r-gh! Ican taste it yet.

　　And I was appalled at the price French Frank had paid--eightycents. Eighty cents! It was an outrage to my thrifty soul.Eighty cents--the equivalent of eight long hours of my toil at themachine, gone down our throats, and gone like that, in atwinkling, leaving only a bad taste in the mouth. There was nodiscussion that French Frank was a waster.

　　I was anxious to be gone, out into the sunshine, out over thewater to my glorious boat. But all hands lingered. Even Spider,my crew, lingered. No hint broke through my obtuseness of whythey lingered. I have often thought since of how they must haveregarded me, the newcomer being welcomed into their companystanding at bar with them, and not standing for a single round ofdrinks.

　　French Frank, who, unknown to me, had swallowed his chagrin sincethe day before, now that the money for the Razzle Dazzle was inhis pocket, began to behave curiously toward me. I sensed thechange in his attitude, saw the forbidding glitter in his eyes,and wondered. The more I saw of men, the queerer they became.Johnny Heinhold leaned across the bar and whispered in my ear s"He's got it in for you. Watch out."

　　I nodded comprehension of his statement, and acquiescence in it,as a man should nod who knows all about men. But secretly I wasperplexed. Heavens! How was I, who had worked hard and read booksof adventure, and who was only fifteen years old, who had notdreamed of giving the Queen of the Oyster Pirates a secondthought, and who did not know that French Frank was madly andLatinly in love with her--how was I to guess that I had done himshame? And how was I to guess that the story of how the Queen hadthrown him down on his own boat, the moment I hove in sight, wasalready the gleeful gossip of the water-front? And by the sametoken, how was I to guess that her brother Pat's offishness withme was anything else than temperamental gloominess of spirit?

　　Whisky Bob got me aside a moment. "Keep your eyes open," hemuttered. "Take my tip. French Frank's ugly. I'm going up riverwith him to get a schooner for oystering. When he gets down onthe beds, watch out. He says he'll run you down. After dark, anytime he's around, change your anchorage and douse your ridinglight. Savve?"

　　Oh, certainly, I savve'd. I nodded my head, and, as one man toanother, thanked him for his tip; and drifted back to the group atthe bar. No; I did not treat. I never dreamed that I wasexpected to treat. I left with Spider, and my ears burn now as Itry to surmise the things they must have said about me.

　　I asked Spider, in an off-hand way, what was eating French Frank."He's crazy jealous of you," was the answer. "Do you think so?" Isaid, and dismissed the matter as not worth thinking about.

　　But I leave it to any one--the swell of my fifteen-years-oldmanhood at learning that French Frank, the adventurer of fifty,the sailor of all the seas of all the world, was jealous of me--and jealous over a girl most romantically named the Queen of theOyster Pirates. I had read of such things in books, and regardedthem as personal probabilities of a distant maturity. Oh, I felta rare young devil, as we hoisted the big mainsail that morning,broke out anchor, and filled away close-hauled on the three-milebeat to windward out into the bay.

　　Such was my escape from the killing machine-toil, and myintroduction to the oyster pirates. True, the introduction hadbegun with drink, and the life promised to continue with drink.But was I to stay away from it for such reason? Wherever life ranfree and great, there men drank. Romance and Adventure seemedalways to go down the street locked arm in arm with JohnBarleycorn. To know the two, I must know the third. Or else Imust go back to my free library books and read of the deeds ofother men and do no deeds of my own save slave for ten cents anhour at a machine in a cannery.

　　No; I was not to be deterred from this brave life on the water bythe fact that the water-dwellers had queer and expensive desiresfor beer and wine and whisky. What if their notions of happinessincluded the strange one of seeing me drink? When they persistedin buying the stuff and thrusting it upon me, why, I would drinkit. It was the price I would pay for their comradeship. And Ididn't have to get drunk. I had not got drunk the Sundayafternoon I arranged to buy the Razzle Dazzle, despite the factthat not one of the rest was sober. Well, I could go on into thefuture that way, drinking the stuff when it gave them pleasurethat I should drink it, but carefully avoiding over-drinking.