he drive was to be
long, I would be up and at my writing by five in the morning. On easier
driving days I might not start writing till nine o'clock.

But how to plan? As soon as I arrived in a town, and put the horses up,
on the way from the stable to the hotel I dropped into the saloons.
First thing, a drink--oh, I wanted the drink, but also it must not be
forgotten that, because of wanting to know things, it was in this very
way I had learned to want a drink. Well, the first thing, a drink.
"Have something yourself," to the barkeeper. And then, as we drink, my
opening query about roads and stopping-places on ahead.

"Let me see," the barkeeper will say, "there's the road across Tarwater
Divide. That used to be good. I was over it three years ago. But it
was blocked this spring. Say, I'll tell you what. I'll ask Jerry----"
And the barkeeper turns and addresses some man sitting at a table or
leaning against the bar farther along, and who may be Jerry, or Tom, or
Bill. "Say, Jerry, how about the Tarwater road? You was down to Wilkins
last week."

And while Bill or Jerry or Tom is beginning to unlimber his thinking and
speaking apparatus, I suggest that he join us in the drink. Then
discussions arise about the advisability of this road or that, what the
best stopping-places may be, what running time I may expect to make,
where the best trout streams are, and so forth, in which other men join,
and which are punctuated with more drinks.

Two or three more saloons, and I accumulate a warm jingle and come pretty
close to knowing everybody in town, all about the town, and a fair deal
about the surrounding country. I know the lawyers, editors, business
men, local politicians, and the visiting ranchers, hunters, and miners,
so that by evening, when Charmian and I stroll down the main street and
back, she is astounded by the number of my acquaintances in that totally
strange town.

And thus is demonstrated a service John Barleycorn renders, a service by
which he increases his power over men. And over the world, wherever I
have gone, during all the years, it has been the same. It may be a
cabaret in the Latin Quarter, a cafe in some obscure Italian village, a
boozing ken in sailor-town, and it may be up at the club over Scotch and
soda; but always it will be where John Barleycorn makes fellowship that I
get immediately in touch, and meet, and know. And in the good days
coming, when John Barleycorn will have been