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