oral qualms. My revulsion was purely physical. No
exalted moments were worth such hours of misery and wretchedness. When I
got back to my skiff, I shunned the Idler. I would cross the opposite
side of the channel to go around her. Scotty had disappeared. The
harpooner was still about, but him I avoided. Once, when he landed on
the boat-wharf, I hid in a shed so as to escape seeing him. I was afraid
he would propose some more drinking, maybe have a flask full of whisky in
his pocket.

And yet--and here enters the necromancy of John Barleycorn--that
afternoon's drunk on the Idler had been a purple passage flung into the
monotony of my days. It was memorable. My mind dwelt on it continually.
I went over the details, over and over again. Among other things, I had
got into the cogs and springs of men's actions. I had seen Scotty weep
about his own worthlessness and the sad case of his Edinburgh mother who
was a lady. The harpooner had told me terribly wonderful things of
himself. I had caught a myriad enticing and inflammatory hints of a
world beyond my world, and for which I was certainly as fitted as the two
lads who had drunk with me. I had got behind men's souls. I had got
behind my own soul and found unguessed potencies and greatnesses.

Yes, that day stood out above all my other days. To this day it so
stands out. The memory of it is branded in my brain. But the price
exacted was too high. I refused to play and pay, and returned to my
cannon-balls and taffy-slabs. The point is that all the chemistry of my
healthy, normal body drove me away from alcohol. The stuff didn't agree
with me. It was abominable. But, despite this, circumstance was to
continue to drive me toward John Barleycorn, to drive me again and again,
until, after long years, the time should come when I would look up John
Barleycorn in every haunt of men--look him up and hail him gladly as
benefactor and friend. And detest and hate him all the time. Yes, he is
a strange friend, John Barleycorn.

CHAPTER VII

I was barely turned fifteen, and working long hours in a cannery. Month
in and month out, the shortest day I ever worked was ten hours. When to
ten hours of actual work at a machine is added the noon hour; the walking
to work and walking home from work; the getting up in the morning,
dressing, and eating; the eating at night, undressing, and going to bed,
there remains no more than the nine hours out of the twenty