spreading it on the inside of this cheek, then on the inside of
the other cheek, until, at the end, it eluded me and in tiny drops
and oozelets, slipped and dribbled down my throat. Horace
Fletcher had nothing on me when it came to soda crackers.

I liked saloons. Especially I liked the San Francisco saloons.
They had the most delicious dainties for the taking--strange
breads and crackers, cheeses, sausages, sardines--wonderful foods
that I never saw on our meagre home-table. And once, I remember,
a barkeeper mixed me a sweet temperance drink of syrup and soda-
water. My father did not pay for it. It was the barkeeper's
treat, and he became my ideal of a good, kind man. I dreamed day-
dreams of him for years. Although I was seven years old at the
time, I can see him now with undiminished clearness, though I
never laid eyes on him but that one time. The saloon was south of
Market Street in San Francisco. It stood on the west side of the
street. As you entered, the bar was on the left. On the right,
against the wall, was the free lunch counter. It was a long,
narrow room, and at the rear, beyond the beer kegs on tap, were
small, round tables and chairs. The barkeeper was blue-eyed, and
had fair, silky hair peeping out from under a black silk skull-
cap. I remember he wore a brown Cardigan jacket, and I know
precisely the spot, in the midst of the array of bottles, from
which he took the bottle of red-coloured syrup. He and my father
talked long, and I sipped my sweet drink and worshipped him. And
for years afterward I worshipped the memory of him.

Despite my two disastrous experiences, here was John Barleycorn,
prevalent and accessible everywhere in the community, luring and
drawing me. Here were connotations of the saloon making deep