Well, the first thing, a drink. "Have something yourself," to the
barkeeper. And then, as we drink, my opening query about roads
and stopping-places on ahead.

"Let me see," the barkeeper will say, "there's the road across
Tarwater Divide. That used to be good. I was over it three years
ago. But it was blocked this spring. Say, I'll tell you what.
I'll ask Jerry----" And the barkeeper turns and addresses some man
sitting at a table or leaning against the bar farther along, and
who may be Jerry, or Tom, or Bill. "Say, Jerry, how about the
Tarwater road? You was down to Wilkins last week."

And while Bill or Jerry or Tom is beginning to unlimber his
thinking and speaking apparatus, I suggest that he join us in the
drink. Then discussions arise about the advisability of this road
or that, what the best stopping-places may be, what running time I
may expect to make, where the best trout streams are, and so
forth, in which other men join, and which are punctuated with more
drinks.

Two or three more saloons, and I accumulate a warm jingle and come
pretty close to knowing everybody in town, all about the town, and
a fair deal about the surrounding country. I know the lawyers,
editors, business men, local politicians, and the visiting
ranchers, hunters, and miners, so that by evening, when Charmian
and I stroll down the main street and back, she is astounded by
the number of my acquaintances in that totally strange town.

And thus is demonstrated a service John Barleycorn renders, a
service by which he increases his power over men. And over the