Chapter X

by Jack London

　　And so I won my manhood's spurs. My status on the water-front andwith the oyster pirates became immediately excellent. I waslooked upon as a good fellow, as well as no coward. And somehow,from the day I achieved that concept sitting on the stringer-pieceof the Oakland City Wharf, I have never cared much for money. Noone has ever considered me a miser since, while my carelessness ofmoney is a source of anxiety and worry to some that know me.

　　So completely did I break with my parsimonious past that I sentword home to my mother to call in the boys of the neighbourhoodand give to them all my collections. I never even cared to learnwhat boys got what collections. I was a man now, and I made aclean sweep of everything that bound me to my boyhood.

　　My reputation grew. When the story went around the water-front ofhow French Frank had tried to run me down with his schooner, andof how I had stood on the deck of the Razzle Dazzle, a cockeddouble-barrelled shotgun in my hands, steering with my feet andholding her to her course, and compelled him to put up his wheeland keep away, the water-front decided that there was something inme despite my youth. And I continued to show what was in me.There were the times I brought the Razzle Dazzle in with a biggerload of oysters than any other two-man craft; there was the timewhen we raided far down in Lower Bay, and mine was the only craftback at daylight to the anchorage off Asparagus Island; there wasthe Thursday night we raced for market and I brought the RazzleDazzle in without a rudder, first of the fleet, and skimmed thecream of the Friday morning trade; and there was the time Ibrought her in from Upper Bay under a jib, when Scotty burned mymainsail. (Yes; it was Scotty of the Idler adventure. Irish hadfollowed Spider on board the Razzle Dazzle, and Scotty, turningup, had taken Irish's place.)

　　But the things I did on the water only partly counted. Whatcompleted everything, and won for me the title of "Prince of theOyster Beds," was that I was a good fellow ashore with my money,buying drinks like a man. I little dreamed that the time wouldcome when the Oakland water-front, which had shocked me at firstwould be shocked and annoyed by the devilry of the things I did.

　　But always the life was tied up with drinking. The saloons arepoor men's clubs. Saloons are congregating places. We engaged tomeet one another in saloons. We celebrated our good fortune orwept our grief in saloons. We got acquainted in saloons.

　　Can I ever forget the afternoon I met "Old Scratch," Nelson'sfather? It was in the Last Chance. Johnny Heinhold introduced us.That Old Scratch was Nelson's father was noteworthy enough. Butthere was more in it than that. He was owner and master of thescow-schooner Annie Mine, and some day I might ship as a sailorwith him. Still more, he was romance. He was a blue-eyed,yellow-haired, raw-boned Viking, big-bodied and strong-muscleddespite his age. And he had sailed the seas in ships of allnations in the old savage sailing days.

　　I had heard many weird tales about him, and worshipped him from adistance. It took the saloon to bring us together. Even so, ouracquaintance 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 Ihad learned good form in drinking dictates. Of course, while wedrank our beer, which I had paid for, it was incumbent on him tolisten to me and to talk to me. And Johnny, like a true host,made the tactful remarks that enabled us to find mutual topics ofconversation. And of course, having drunk my beer, Captain Nelsonmust now buy beer in turn. This led to more talking, and Johnnydrifted out of the conversation to wait on other customers.

　　The more beer Captain Nelson and I drank, the better we gotacquainted. In me he found an appreciative listener, who, byvirtue 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 rareyarn for me, while we downed beer, treat by treat, all through ablessed summer afternoon. And it was only John Barleycorn thatmade possible that long afternoon with the old sea-dog.

　　It was Johnny Heinhold who secretly warned me across the bar thatI was getting pickled and advised me to take small beers. But aslong as Captain Nelson drank large beers, my pride forbadeanything else than large beers. And not until the skipper orderedhis first small beer did I order one for myself. Oh, when we cameto a lingering fond farewell, I was drunk. But I had thesatisfaction of seeing Old Scratch as drunk as I. My youthfulmodesty scarcely let me dare believe that the hardened oldbuccaneer was even more drunk.

　　And afterwards, from Spider, and Pat, and C]am, and JohnnyHeinhold, and others, came the tips that Old Scratch liked me andhad nothing but good words for the fine lad I was. Which was themore remarkable, because he was known as a savage, cantankerousold cuss who never liked anybody. (His very nickname, "Scratch,"arose from a Berserker trick of his, in fighting, of tearing offhis opponent's face.) And that I had won his friendship, allthanks were due to John Barleycorn. I have given the incidentmerely as an example of the multitudinous lures and draws andservices by which John Barleycorn wins his followers.