s I was concerned, alcohol did not exist. I did suffer from
brain-fag on occasion, but alcohol never suggested itself as an
ameliorative. Heavens! Editorial acceptances and cheques were all the
amelioratives I needed. A thin envelope from an editor in the morning's
mail was more stimulating than half a dozen cocktails. And if a cheque
of decent amount came out of the envelope, such incident in itself was a
whole drunk.

Furthermore, at that time in my life I did not know what a cocktail was.
I remember, when my first book was published, several Alaskans, who were
members of the Bohemian Club, entertained me one evening at the club in
San Francisco. We sat in most wonderful leather chairs, and drinks were
ordered. Never had I heard such an ordering of liqueurs and of highballs
of particular brands of Scotch. I didn't know what a liqueur or a
highball was, and I didn't know that "Scotch" meant whisky. I knew only
poor men's drinks, the drinks of the frontier and of sailor-town--cheap
beer and cheaper whisky that was just called whisky and nothing else. I
was embarrassed to make a choice, and the steward nearly collapsed when I
ordered claret as an after-dinner drink.

CHAPTER XXVII

As I succeeded with my writing, my standard of living rose and my horizon
broadened. I confined myself to writing and typing a thousand words a
day, including Sundays and holidays; and I still studied hard, but not so
hard as formerly. I allowed myself five and one-half hours of actual
sleep. I added this half-hour because I was compelled. Financial
success permitted me more time for exercise. I rode my wheel more,
chiefly because it was permanently out of pawn; and I boxed and fenced,
walked on my hands, jumped high and broad, put the shot and tossed the
caber, and went swimming. And I learned that more sleep is required for
physical exercise than for mental exercise. There were tired nights,
bodily, when I slept six hours; and on occasion of very severe exercise I
actually slept seven hours. But such sleep orgies were not frequent.
There was so much to learn, so much to be done, that I felt wicked when I
slept seven hours. And I blessed the man who invented alarm clocks.

And still no desire to drink. I possessed too many fine faiths, was
living at too keen a pitch. I was a socialist, intent on saving the
world, and alcohol could not give me the fervours that were mine from my
ideas and ideals. My voice, on ac