Such a disaster meant anywhere between twenty-five to eighty cents, just according to how many of the players ordered ten-cent drinks.

But we could temporarily escape the evil effects of such disaster, by virtue of an account we ran behind the bar.
Of course, this only set back the day of reckoning and seduced us into spending more than we would have spent on a cash basis.

(When I left Oakland suddenly for the adventure-path the following spring, I well remember I owed that saloon-keeper one dollar and seventy cents.

Long after, when I returned, he was gone.

I still owe him that dollar and seventy cents, and if he should chance to read these lines I want him to know that I'll pay on demand.) The foregoing incident of the National Saloon I have given in order again to show the lure, or draw, or compulsion, toward John Barleycorn in society as at present organised with saloons on all the corners.