Once I worked at my machine for thirty-six consecutive hours.

And there were weeks on end when I never knocked off work earlier than eleven o'clock, got home and in bed at half after midnight, and was called at half-past five to dress, eat, walk to work, and be at my machine at seven o'clock whistle blow.
No moments here to be stolen for my beloved books.

And what had John Barleycorn to do with such strenuous, Stoic toil of a lad just turned fifteen?
He had everything to do with it.

Let me show you.

I asked myself if this were the meaning of life--to be a work-beast?
I knew of no horse in the city of Oakland that worked the hours I worked.