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Updated: June 16, 2025
Then Beasley Melford. He's jest a durned skunk anyways. Don't guess Curly Saunders ain't much account neither. He makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. Abe Allinson, he's sort o' mean, too. Y' see Abe's Slaney Dick's pardner, an' they bin workin' gold so long they ain't got a tho't in their gray heads 'cept gold an' rot-gut rye. Still, they're better'n the Kid.
From this comes the terrible habit, among the older toilers, of the eye-opener, a gulp of rot-gut whiskey, taken to arouse the sleeping stomach and force sufficient food on it to last till noon. As a convalescent victim of this proletarian practice I am well aware of its ravages on body and mind.
Nothing loth, I drank, for I was thirsty with the hot day; and thinks I, I am yet in the world, and the grapes of the Rhine have not yet lost their flavour; for if ever I drank good Steinberg, I drank it that morning; and I made a mental note to ask Dick how they managed to make fine wine when there were no longer labourers compelled to drink rot-gut instead of the fine wine which they themselves made.
It is such men who chop down the woodwork of cabins rather than be troubled to take the axe into the forest a few rods away, who depart in the morning without making kindling and shavings, careless how other travellers may fare so themselves be warm without labour; who make "easy money" in the summer-time by dropping down the Yukon with a boat-load of "rot-gut" whisky, leaving drunkenness and riot at every village they pass; who beget children of the native women and regard them no more than a dog does his pups, indifferent that their own flesh and blood go cold and hungry.
He pushed the bottle across the counter and watched Ike pour himself out a full "four fingers." The sight of his gluttony made Beasley feel glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that morning from the common "rot-gut" cask. After their drink he became expansive. "That's an elegant claim of yours, Ike," he said, taking up his favorite position on the bar.
Pierre, he met one of them crooked traders, that sometimes sneaks acrost the mountains; and he sold him the stuff for a keg of rot-gut. When I hear that I was thankful he brought back the horses at all. The business near busted me; for I had to make good three hundred worth of groceries to Pentland; and sacrificed the second team, 'count of the shape they were in.
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