t last found our
way into the National, a saloon on Tenth and Franklin. Here was a more
congenial crowd. Here Louis met a fellow or two he knew, and here I met
fellows I had gone to school with when a little lad in knee pants. We
talked of old days, and of what had become of this fellow, and what that
fellow was doing now, and of course we talked it over drinks. They
treated, and we drank. Then, according to the code of drinking, we had
to treat. It hurt, for it meant forty to fifty cents a clatter.

We felt quite enlivened when the short evening was over; but at the same
time we were bankrupt. Our week's spending money was gone. We decided
that that was the saloon for us, and we agreed to be more circumspect
thereafter in our drink-buying. Also, we had to economise for the rest
of the week. We didn't even have car-fare. We were compelled to break
an engagement with two girls from West Oakland with whom we were
attempting to be in love. They were to meet us up town the next evening,
and we hadn't the car-fare necessary to take them home. Like many others
financially embarrassed, we had to disappear for a time from the gay
whirl--at least until Saturday night pay-day. So Louis and I
rendezvoused in a livery stable, and with coats buttoned and chattering
teeth played euchre and casino until the time of our exile was over.

Then we returned to the National Saloon and spent no more than we could
decently avoid spending for the comfort and warmth. Sometimes we had
mishaps, as when one got stuck twice in succession in a five-handed game
of Sancho Pedro for the drinks. Such a disaster meant anywhere between
twenty-five to eighty cents, just according to how many of the players
ordered ten-cent drinks. But we could temporarily escape the evil
effects of such disaster, by virtue of an account we ran behind the bar.
Of course, this only set back the day of reckoning and seduced us into
spending more than we would have spent on a cash basis. (When I left
Oakland suddenly for the adventure-path the following spring, I well
remember I owed that saloon-keeper one dollar and seventy cents. Long
after, when I returned, he was gone. I still owe him that dollar and
seventy cents, and if he should chance to read these lines I want him to
know that I'll pay on demand.)

The foregoing incident of the National Saloon I have given in order again
to show the lure, or draw, or compulsion, toward John Barleycorn in
society