Which we did, arms around each other's necks, protesting vows of eternal friendship--just like Black Matt and Tom Morrisey, I remembered, in the ranch kitchen in San Mateo.

And, remembering, I knew that I was at last a man--despite my meagre fourteen years--a man as big and manly as those two strapping giants who had quarrelled and made up on that memorable Sunday morning of long ago.
By this time the singing stage was reached, and I joined Scotty and the harpooner in snatches of sea songs and chanties.

It was here, in the cabin of the Idler, that I first heard "Blow the Man Down," "Flying Cloud," and "Whisky, Johnny, Whisky." Oh, it was brave.

I was beginning to grasp the meaning of life.

Here was no commonplace, no Oakland Estuary, no weary round of throwing newspapers at front doors, delivering ice, and setting up ninepins.