boarding-house.

But it was not the Sailors' Home. That respectable institution might
do very well for boys, and callow ordinary seamen, but it certainly
would not do for a newly made A.B. Nor was I looking for Mother
Harrison's place, as I told Mother's runner, who stuck at my elbow for
a time. Mother Harrison's was known as the quietest, most orderly
house on the street; it might do for those quiet and orderly old
shellbacks whose blood had been chilled by age; but it would never do
for a young A.B., a real man, who was wishful for all the mad living
the beach afforded. No; I was looking for the Knitting Swede's.

Knitting Swede Olson! Remember him, Briggs? A fine hole for a young
fool to seek! But I was a man, remember--a MAN--and that precious
discharge proved it. I was nineteen years old, and manhood bears a
very serious aspect at nineteen. No wonder I was holding my head in
the air. The fellows in my watch would listen to my opinions with
respect, now I was an able seaman. No longer would I scrub the foc'sle
floor while the lazy beggars slept. No longer would I peggy week in
and week out. I was A.B. at last; a full-fledged man! Of course, I
must straightway prove my manhood; so I was bound for the Knitting
Swede's.

Everybody knew the Knitting Swede in those days; every man Jack who
ever joined a ship. They told of him in New York, and London, and
Callao, and Singapore, and in every foc'sle afloat. The king of
crimps! He sat in his barroom, in East street, placidly knitting socks
with four steel needles, and as placidly ignoring every law of God and
man. He ruled the 'Frisco waterfront, did the Knitting Swede, and made
his power felt to the very ends of the seas.