And Brisbane’s editorials frequently touched on matters that the mob are supposed not to be interested in ... stories of the lives of poets, philosophers, statesmen....

One of the men who could barely read ... who ran his fingers along the lines as he read, asked me—­

“Who was this guy SO-krats?”

It was an editorial on Socrates and his life and death that brought forth the enquiry ... after I had imparted to him what information I possessed: 

“Where can I find more about him, and about that pal of his, Plato?”

* * * * *

I was hanging on to my comfortable room at the Y.M.C.A. by bluff.  I had not let on to the secretary that my Belton subsidy had stopped.  Instead, I affected to be concerned about its delay.  But I did this, not to be dishonest, but to gain time ...  I was attempting to write tramp stories, after the manner of London, and expected to have one of them accepted soon, though none ever were....

Decker, the student-proprietor of the restaurant where I ate every day, was more astute.

“Now look here, Gregory, you just can’t run your bill up any higher.”

I already owed him fifteen dollars.

I compounded with him by handing him over my Illustrated History of English Literature.  It was like tearing flesh from my side to part with these volumes.

And now I had no more credit at the Y.M.C.A.

And I went back to Frank Randall, to apply again for my old room over his shop.  He was using it now to store old stoves in.  But he moved them out.

With a sense of despair, compensated by a feeling of sacrifice for my poetry, I found myself once more back over the tinshop, the hammers sounding and crashing below.

Old Blore, the cancer doctor, lived in a room in the front.  All day long he sat drinking rum and sugar ... and shipping out his cancer cure, a white mixture like powdered sugar.  Whether it did any good or not, he believed in it himself....

I have not written about him before ... there are so many odd characters that I came in contact with that I have not written about ... for this book is about myself....

But old Blore ... he came waddling back to me, drunk, as usual, on his rum and sugar.

“Welcome back, Johnnie ... come on, you and Frank, into my room ... we’ve got to celebrate your return.”

Frank and I set down the stove we were moving, dusted our hands off, and followed.

“But I won’t drink any of your rum, Ed!  It’s got too much of a kick.”

“—­nonsense ... good Jamaica rum never hurt nobody.”

We drank several rounds of rum and water, with sugar.  And we jocosely joined together in singing the cancer doctor’s favourite hymn—­“We’re drifting down the stream of time, we haven’t got long to stay.”