Martin Eden

bearings. Joe was halfway down to the saloon when Martin passed by, bending low over the handle-bars, his legs driving the ninety-six gear with rhythmic strength, his face set for seventy miles of road and grade and dust. He slept in Oakland that night, and on Sunday covered the seventy miles back. And on Monday morning, weary, he began the new week’s work, but he had kept sober.
    A fifth week passed, and a sixth, during which he lived and toiled as a machine, with just a spark of something more in him, just a glimmering bit of soul, that compelled him, at each week-end, to scorch off the hundred and forty miles. But this was not rest. It was super-machinelike, and it helped to crush out the glimmering bit of soul that was all that was left him from former life. At the end of the seventh week, without intending it, too weak to resist, he drifted down to the village with Joe and drowned life and found life until Monday morning.
    Again, at the week-ends, he ground out the one hundred and forty miles, obliterating the numbness of too great exertion by the numbness of still greater exertion. At the end of three months he went down a third time to the village with Joe. He forgot, and lived again, and, living, he saw, in clear illumination, the beast he was making of himself—not by the drink, but by the work. The drink was an effect, not a cause. It followed inevitably upon the work, as the night follows upon the day. Not by becoming a toil-beast could he win to the heights, was the message the whiskey whispered to him, and he nodded approbation. The whiskey was wise. It told secrets on itself.
    He called for paper and pencil, and for drinks all around, and while they drank his very good health, he clung to the bar and scribbled.
    “A telegram, Joe,” he said. “Read it.”
    Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer. But what he read seemed to sober him. He looked at the other reproachfully, tears oozing into his eyes and down his cheeks.
    “You ain’t goin’ back on me, Mart?” he queried hopelessly.
    Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take the message to the telegraph office.
    “Hold on,” Joe muttered thickly. “Lemme think.”
    He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him, Martin’s arm around him and supporting him, while he thought.
    “Make that two laundrymen,” he said abruptly. “Here, lemme fix it.”
    “What are you quitting for?” Martin demanded.
    “Same reason as you.”
    “But I’m going to sea. You can’t do that.”
    “Nope,” was the answer, “but I can hobo all right, all right.”
    Martin looked at him searchingly for a moment, then cried:-
    “By God, I think you’re right! Better a hobo than a beast of toil. Why, man, you’ll live. And that’s more than you ever did before.”
    “I was in hospital, once,” Joe corrected. “It was beautiful. Typhoid—did I tell you?”
    While Martin changed the telegram to “two laundrymen,” Joe went on:-
    “I never wanted to drink when I was in hospital. Funny, ain’t it? But when I’ve ben workin’ like a slave all week, I just got to bowl up. Ever noticed that cooks drink like hell?—an’ bakers, too? It’s the work. They’ve sure got to. Here, lemme pay half of that telegram.”
    “I’ll shake you for it,” Martin offered.
    “Come on, everybody drink,” Joe called, as they rattled the dice and rolled them out on the damp bar.
    Monday morning Joe was wild with anticipation. He did not mind his aching head, nor did he take interest in his work. Whole herds of moments stole away and were lost while their careless shepherd gazed out of the window at the sunshine and the trees.
    “Just look at it!” he cried. “An’ it’s all mine! It’s free. I can lie down under them trees an’ sleep for a thousan’ years if I want to. Aw, come on, Mart, let’s chuck it. What’s the good of waitin’ another moment. That’s the land of nothin’ to do out there, an’ I got a ticket for it—an’ it ain’t no return ticket, b’gosh!”
    A few minutes later, filling the truck with soiled clothes for the washer, Joe spied the hotel manager’s shirt. He knew its mark, and with a sudden glorious consciousness of freedom he threw it on the floor and stamped on it.
    “I wish you was in it, you pig-headed Dutchman!” he shouted. “In it, an’ right there where I’ve got you! Take that! an’ that! an’ that! damn you! Hold me back, somebody! Hold me back!”
    Martin laughed and held him to his