ng
on with my tongue in my cheek, to develop in me a sneaking liking for the
rascal.

CHAPTER IV

My next bout with John Barleycorn occurred when I was seven. This time
my imagination was at fault, and I was frightened into the encounter.
Still farming, my family had moved to a ranch on the bleak sad coast of
San Mateo County, south of San Francisco. It was a wild, primitive
countryside in those days; and often I heard my mother pride herself that
we were old American stock and not immigrant Irish and Italians like our
neighbours. In all our section there was only one other old American
family.

One Sunday morning found me, how or why I cannot now remember, at the
Morrisey ranch. A number of young people had gathered there from the
nearer ranches. Besides, the oldsters had been there, drinking since
early dawn, and, some of them, since the night before. The Morriseys
were a huge breed, and there were many strapping great sons and uncles,
heavy-booted, big-fisted, rough-voiced.

Suddenly there were screams from the girls and cries of "Fight!" There
was a rush. Men hurled themselves out of the kitchen. Two giants,
flush-faced, with greying hair, were locked in each other's arms. One
was Black Matt, who, everybody said, had killed two men in his time. The
women screamed softly, crossed themselves, or prayed brokenly, hiding
their eyes and peeping through their fingers. But not I. It is a fair
presumption that I was the most interested spectator. Maybe I would see
that wonderful thing, a man killed. Anyway, I would see a man-fight.
Great was my disappointment. Black Matt and Tom Morrisey merely held on
to each other and lifted their clumsy-booted feet in what seemed a
grotesque, elephantine dance. They were too drunk to fight. Then the
peacemakers got hold of them and led them back to cement the new
friendship in the kitchen.

Soon they were all talking at once, rumbling and roaring as big-chested
open-air men will, when whisky has whipped their taciturnity. And I, a
little shaver of seven, my heart in my mouth, my trembling body strung
tense as a deer's on the verge of flight, peered wonderingly in at the
open door and learned more of the strangeness of men. And I marvelled at
Black Matt and Tom Morrisey, sprawled over the table, arms about each
other's necks, weeping lovingly.

The kitchen-drinking continued, and the girls outside grew timorous.
They knew the drink game, and all were cer