And the Yeah, Welcome back everyone to one thousand one classic short stories and tales. This is your host John Haggadorn. Today, a Jack London story from

his book South Sea Tales called Yaa Yaa Yaa. And now our story. He was a whiskey guzzling's goshman and he downed his whiskey neat, beginning with his first

tot punchually at six in the morning and thereafter repeating it at regular intervals throughout the day till bedtime

which was usually midnight. He slept at five hours out of the 24 and for the remaining 19 hours he was

quietly and decently drunk.

During the eight weeks I spent with him on Ulong et al, I never saw him draw a sober breath.

In fact, his sleep was so short that he never had time to sober up.

It was the most beautiful and orderly perennial drunk I have ever observed.

Macalester was his name.

He was an old man and very shaky on his pins. His hand

trembled as with a palsy, especially noticeable when he poured his whiskey,

though I never knew him to spell a drop. He had been 28 years in

millenasia ranging from German New Guinea to the German

Salimans and so thoroughly had he become identified with that

portion of the world that he habitually spoken that

bastard lingo called Bish-de-Mere.

Thus in conversation with me, Sun He Come Up, meant Sunrise.

Ka-Kai He stopped.

Meant that dinner was served.

And belly belonged to me, walk about.

Meant that he was sick at his stomach.

He was a small man and a withered one, burned inside and outside by Arden spirits and

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