We had met Prohibition first at Honolulu, not a few of the passengers
receiving the shock of their lives on learning at the hotel that only
"soft drinks" were permitted. Our second reminder of the new regime came
as we entered American waters off the Golden Gate and the ship's bar was
formally closed. And then, in San Francisco, we found "dry" land indeed.
In this connection let me say that in the hotel I made acquaintance
with an official of great power who was new to me: the buttoned boy
who rejoices in the proud title of Bell Captain. He gave me a private
insight into his precocity (but that is not the word, for all boys in
America are men too), and into his influence, by offering to supply me
with forbidden fruit, in the shape of whisky, at the modest figure
of $25 a bottle. He did not, however, say dollars: like most of his
compatriots (and it is a favourite word with them) he said something
between "dollars" and "dallars."
I had, a few days later, in Chicago, a similarly friendly offer from a
policeman of whom I had inquired the way. Recognizing an English accent,
he had instantly divined what my dearest wish must be. I then asked him
how prohibition was affecting the people on his beat. He said that a few
drunkards were less comfortable and a few wives more serene; but for the
most part he had seen no increase of happiness, and the extra money
that it provided was spent either on the movies, dress, or "other
foolishness." I did not allow him to refresh me. After a course of
American "tough" fiction, of which "Susan Lenox" remains most luridly in
the memory, I had a terror of all professional upholders of the law.