There was no shame attached.

Even the lads and lassies giggled and snickered over their part in the affair, narrating with gusto how Larry had jumped on my chest and slept under the bridge, how So-and-So had slept out in the sandhills that night, and what had happened to the other lad who fell in the ditch.

As I say, so far as I could see, there was no shame anywhere.

It had been something ticklishly, devilishly fine--a bright and gorgeous episode in the monotony of life and labour on that bleak, fog-girt coast.
The Irish ranchers twitted me good-naturedly on my exploit, and patted me on the back until I felt that I had done something heroic.

Peter and Dominick and the other Italians were proud of my drinking prowess.