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inside front cover
(Continued on inside back cover)
Grokking Functional
Programming

Michał Płachta

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Dedication
To my dear family: Marta, Wojtek, and Ola, for all the good
vibes and inspiration.

To my parents: Renia and Leszek, for all the opportunities

you’ve given me.
contents
Front matter
preface
acknowledgments
about this book
about the author

Part 1. The functional toolkit

1 Learning functional programming
 Perhaps you picked up this book because...
What do you need to know before we start?
What do functions look like?
Meet the function
When the code lies...
Imperative vs. declarative
Coffee break: Imperative vs. declarative
Coffee break explained: Imperative vs. declarative
How useful is learning functional programming?
Leaping into Scala
Practicing functions in Scala
Getting your tools ready
Getting to know the REPL
Writing your first functions!
How to use this book

2 Pure functions
 Why do we need pure functions?
Coding imperatively
Breaking the code
Passing copies of the data
Breaking the code . . . again
Recalculating instead of storing
Focusing on the logic by passing the state
Where did the state go?
The difference between impure and pure functions
Coffee break: Refactoring to a pure function
Coffee break explained: Refactoring to a pure function
In pure functions we trust
Pure functions in programming languages
Difficulty of staying pure...
Pure functions and clean code
Coffee break: Pure or impure?
Coffee break explained: Pure or impure?
Using Scala to write pure functions
Practicing pure functions in Scala
Testing pure functions
Coffee break: Testing pure functions
Coffee break explained: Testing pure functions

3 Immutable values
 The fuel for the engine
Another case for immutability
Can you trust this function?
Mutability is dangerous
Functions that lie... again
Fighting mutability by working with copies
Coffee break: Getting burned by mutability
Coffee break explained: Getting burned by mutability
Introducing shared mutable state
State’s impact on programming abilities
Dealing with the moving parts
Dealing with the moving parts using FP
Immutable values in Scala
Building our intuition about immutability
Coffee break: The immutable String API
Coffee break explained: The immutable String API
Hold on . . . Isn’t this bad?
Purely functional approach to shared mutable state
Practicing immutable slicing and appending

4 Functions as values
Implementing requirements as functions
Impure functions and mutable values strike back
Using Java Streams to sort the list
Function signatures should tell the whole story
Changing requirements
We just pass the code around!
Using Java’s Function values
Using the Function syntax to deal with code duplication
Passing user-defined functions as arguments
Coffee break: Functions as parameters
Coffee break explained: Functions as parameters
Problems with reading functional Java
Passing functions in Scala
Deep dive into sortBy

Signatures with function parameters in Scala

Passing functions as arguments in Scala
Practicing function passing
Embracing declarative programming
Passing functions to custom-made functions
Small functions and their responsibilities
Passing functions inline
Coffee break: Passing functions in Scala
Coffee break explained: Passing functions in Scala
What else can we achieve just by passing functions?
Applying a function to each element of a list
Applying a function to each element of a list using map

Getting to know map

Practicing map

Learn once, use everywhere

Returning parts of the list based on a condition
Returning parts of the list using filter

Getting to know filter

Practicing filter

Our journey so far...

Don’t repeat yourself?
Is my API easy to use?
Adding a new parameter is not enough
Functions can return functions
Using functions that can return functions
Functions are values
Coffee break: Returning functions
Coffee break explained: Returning functions
Designing functional APIs
Iterative design of functional APIs
Returning functions from returned functions
How to return functions from returned functions
Using the flexible API built with returned functions
Using multiple parameter lists in functions
We have been currying!
Practicing currying
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of When
everybody knew
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: When everybody knew

Author: Raymond S. Spears

Release date: April 1, 2024 [eBook #73315]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Butterick Publishing Company,

1928

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN

EVERYBODY KNEW ***
 WHEN EVERYBODY KNEW
By Raymond S. Spears
Of course it was easy to understand Patient Bob’s
handling of the bad man.

A swaggering monster of a man, with long, tangled black hair, a

cascade of blue steel whiskers and sunken caverns for eyes,
thundered on thick soled boots into the Many Moons Barroom where
he surged with long and eager strides to the center of the three man
width of liquid counter. As he approached, those between him and
his apparent point of destination spread swiftly to right and left.
“Set ’er up!” he growled, shaking his head, snorting, and turning
from side to side till he had surveyed the whole circumference of the
establishment with his sunken, glowing eyes.
He drank what looked to be a ridiculously little drink for so huge a
carcass; he wriggled all the way down as the tiny shot burned in his
throat. He gurgled and choked, as if the drink were in proportion to
him, and after four or five fillings of the barrel shaped little glass he
reached tentatively for the outflaring yellow handled revolver which
was of a size in proportion to his beef. He gave sidelong glances into
the big mirrors behind the bar after three or four false alarms with
his gun. And he had a drink after each half completed movement.
Then suddenly he pulled and let go a shot. He looked around. The
bartenders stood with their hands lifted, like squirrels’ paws, and
other patrons of the place were skittering without dignity out of the
way, drawing toward the front and rear entrances through which the
ones who always avoided trouble vanished like mist cloud shadows.
The big fellow took some more drinks, and at intervals in a tentative
kind of way he let go a booming shot. And presently, when he had
reloaded his cylinder twice from loose ammunition in his trousers
pockets he threw a pinch of silver on the bar, enough to pay for his
drinks, and surged into the square.
There, with his big legs spreading, he weaved and swayed while
he looked around. Court House Square of Boxelder was a glow and a
sparkle of yellowish lights, with here and there the colors of red,
green, blue and sundry hues, the brighter places being saloons,
dance halls, gambling places, the most ornate of which had pool and
billiard tables imported at enormous cost. Large boxlike buildings
were dull—the reputable emporiums of trade, where hardware, food,
dry goods and outfits were to be bought.
Swing doors were flashing to the shadows of ingoing or outgoing
figures. As he looked around, the big fellow caught flashes of
sparkling points, the eyes of humans, shining in the gloom like those
of dogs or cats, some green, some golden, some purple.
“I’m Bill of Buck Hill!” the man murmured in his throat, so that it
sounded like a growl; and then, louder, “I’m Rearin’ Bill of Buck Hill!”
He looked around rather expectantly, and raised his chin higher,
throwing back his head.
“I’m Rearin’ Bill of Big Buck Hill!” he shouted. “I’m two yards wide
and nine feet high—Woo-who-o! Woo-who-o!”
At that shout—“Woo-who-o!”—men, standing at every bar around
the square and all the way down to the Claybank Delight, turned and
glanced at one another.
“’Tain’t Texas!” One shook his head. “That’d be e-yeow-w!”
 “’Tain’t Prairie—hit’d be Hi-i-i-i!”
“’Tain’t Rebel—’tain’t Yank.” An old veteran shook his head.
“’Tain’t old Mississip’ shanty boat landing whoop er soundin’ hail.”
“Ner mule skinnin’ cowboy—none of them!” another declared.
“That’s green timber!” a square shouldered, high headed man
remarked as he turned a sheet of a weekly paper in the lobby of
Squint Legere’s hotel.
“My lan’! He’s bad!” A bystander shook his head. “Y’ c’n tell that—
the way he growls— My lan’!”
“Who is he?” some one asked, and another raised a warning
hand.
“Cyarful, ol’ man! He’s from Buck Hill. I’ve been t’ Buck Hill. Hit’s
way yonder in the head of Snake Creek Bad Lands. My land’! I was
glad the sun didn’t set on me up theh; yes, indeedy! He’s Rearin’ Bill
—my lan’! Don’t ’tagonise ’im. He comes from a bad country!”
The hoarse, rumbling growling of the man thus identified came
around the square in the middle of the street. Horses hitched along
the rails turned their heads to look at the phenomenon going by,
twitching their tails and snorting a little under their breaths. A dog
ran out in the dark from the sidewalk, wagging its tail, yipping as it
pranced. Rearing Bill turned and growled at the vagrant beast, and
the dog stood on its hind legs in an enthusiastic invitation to come
on and play!
Some one laughed in the gloom of a passageway between two
saloons. Rearing Bill threw a bullet into that shadow insult and then
slammed two shots which sent the dog squealing in creased terror
the other way around the square. A man’s yell of alarm rose
frantically from the passageway and the clatter of loose boards and
the fall of a stack of booming empty kegs reverberated around.
“Woo-who-o!” Rearing Bill whooped, and the echoes returned
from faces of Bad Land cliffs.
“Lawse, he c’n shore yell!” listeners said in low voices.
As the big fellow shambled nearer, the gamblers around the tables
hesitated, the drinkers at the bars held their liquor poised, looking
over their shoulders at the front doors; and those with nothing
special to divide their attention withdrew to the rear or side
entrances. The bartenders, who must perforce stay and take it,
wiped their hands on their aprons, their fingers twiddling, all except
Flat Face Dink of Squint Legere’s liquid annex. Flat Face Dink lifted
the corner of his lips; then he gave the long, red, cherry wood bar
an extra dry polish.
“My gracious!” the observing Tid Ricks whispered. “Dink don’t care
f’r anybody in the world! He’s all nerve, Dink is! Come the devil
himself and Flat Face’d say to him, ‘Name yer pisen, old boy—how’s
hell t’day?’ He would, honest! I bet he would.”
A heavy footfall out in front of Legere’s shook the planks till they
boomed and creaked. Rearing Bill of Big Buck Hill surged into the
middle of the barroom. Tid Ricks shrank into a corner. Patrons along
the bar watched anxiously through the mirror reflections. Flat Face
Dink deliberately turned his back and stacked up a pyramid of
glasses.
“I want pisen!” the newcomer declared, shambling toward the bar,
where they gave him ten feet width according to his size, looks and
actions.
Flat Face Dink flipped up a quart bottle, tall, straight sided and
long necked, and set up a thick, fluted glass to hold two good liquor
drinks. Rearing Bill looked at the glass, picking it up.
“Put ’r thar, mister!” Rearing Bill said, enthusiastically. “You got a
measure ’cording to the man here—put ’r thar!”
Flat Face Dink colored happily under that praise, and drank with
Rearing Bill, something he never did except with the most
distinguished of patrons.
Rearing Bill holstered his gun with the stained ivory handles. He
was a gentleman among gentlemen, in Squint Legere’s, all on
account of the appreciation of Flat Face Dink of the appropriateness
of measures for a man, serving glasses according to one’s size.
Rearing Bill surged forth into the street again, popped away a couple
of times and went on his way.
He began to sing:
 “I’m Rearing Bill of Big Buck Hill.
Snake pisen is my cure.
Of human flesh I eat my fill;
An’ I takes my whisky pure.”

He ended the verse with a chorus of shots. He aimed at lights,

which crashed in broken glass, for he could shoot pretty straight. His
gunfire made the horses nervous, and they pranced around. When
he was on one side of the square men scurried on the opposite side
to remove their mounts, either racing out to the livery barn and
corral or down toward Strollers’ Campground on the creek bottom.
Rearing Bill’s horse was built on his own generous scale, but he
had begun to ride it when it was too young; and now the beast,
which would have been a good draft horse, was a swayback with a
tired look in the lop of its ears. When Rearing Bill came by, however,
the animal pranced and shook nervously.
Word had been sent to City Marshal Pete Culder, who was out in
his home cabin. The messenger said that Rearing Bill from Buck Hill
had come to town. At least, the fellow had said he was Rearing Bill
and acted as bad as they make them. Culder promised to come right
down, but he wasn’t seen by any one on that hectic night.
After shooting up Court House Square the disturber went into
saloons and took tentative shots at bottles and glasses. Keen
observers noticed that he shot with accuracy. He held his biggest of
revolvers with a free, powerful grip which on the pull landed the lead
slugs in whatever he aimed at, whether tin lamp base or peak glass
on a pyramid of glasses.
Rearing Bill shambled from saloon to saloon. On each circuit he
became more uproarious, more exacting in his demands; and when
in the Happy Medium a frightened bartender put out a half size
whisky glass instead of a double size according to the fashion set by
Flat Face Dink, Rearing Bill with a grizzly-like swipe of the muzzle of
his gun knocked the unfortunate liquor clerk senseless. He then
stood, amused for an instant by the spectacle of the poor devil
sprawled limp on the floor.
 “Heh!” Rearing Bill snarled. “Cheat me on m’ liquor, eh! Heh!”
He turned, surging to glare from sunken eyes at the white faced
onlookers. As he stared at them one by one they all shrank, watchful
of the swinging of the carelessly handled revolver, the drunken
man’s unsteady finger on the trigger, the hammer drawn back at full
cock and the big, powerful paw holding the barrel as steady as a
mounted cannon.
There was in Boxelder a shiftless, shaky, friendless hanger-on
known as Odd Jobbing Det Linver, a huddled up, raggedly dressed
fellow who was kicked around by every one. There had been an
interval of ten or fifteen minutes’ quiet when Odd Jobbing Det
appeared in Squint Legere’s barroom. The man who had been
reading the weekly paper in the lobby laid it on the hotel clerk’s desk
and entered the barroom from the lobby just as Det entered from
the rear alley, looking anxiously behind him.
Rearing Bill had catfooted, as softly as a grizzly bear on the
sneak, into the front entrance. Flat Face Dink looked up with a genial
smile of welcome, so the bully grinned widely as he started for the
bar. Thus Odd Jobbing Det backed right into the very big fellow he
was scared to meet. It was an abrupt collision.
Rearing Bill grunted. He glanced around, stopped and saw the
cringing, shrinking wretch who looked up at him with utterly abject
fear. For an instant Rearing Bill stared and glared; then he began to
grin as he surged at the victim thus thrown in his way. Odd Jobbing
Det backed till he was stopped by the wall. Then Rearing Bill cuffed
and kicked, abusing the wretched weakling, who blubbered,
whimpered, choked and begged. The more he pleaded for mercy the
more the bully slapped and poked him with the big revolver.
“I’ve a notion to kill you,” Rearing Bill suggested tentatively,
“’sultin’ me thataway. I’ve a notion to cut yer heart out an’ eat it! I’ve
a notion to shoot ye—’sultin’ me. Me—bumping into me—walkin’ all
over me. I’ve a notion to kill an’ eat ye f’r breakfast—”’
The spectators, shrinking along the walls, edging away, froze with
expectancy as they saw the tentative suggestion of murder
congealing into determination to kill. Rearing Bill had worked himself
up to a fury. He was weaving in savage ferocity. He glanced around,
covertly from under his bushy brows, taking in the white faces and
the fears in the eyes of the beholders.
“Yes, sir, I’m going t’ kill you!” he suddenly snarled.
But, like a cat playing with a victim Rearing Bill deliberately
delayed. Here was a worthless, terror stricken, utterly helpless and
friendless victim. Odd Jobbing Det looked his sorry misery and his
voice went up in a shrill breaking wail of hopeless terror, for he felt
the drunken brute’s determination to “get a man”, establishing a
reputation as bad, killing to see a victim kick.
The man who had been reading the paper gazed curiously at the
spectacle. He had recognized the whoop of Rearing Bill as that of a
green timber woodsman, a logger from the pine, spruce or hemlock
belt somewhere. Now he saw the big fellow clearly and, staring at
him in surprise, recognized him.
“Why, you damned skunk!” he muttered, just like that, and started
straight across the barroom, bare handed.
There was a gasp of amazement among the other spectators.
Rearing Bill heard or felt the difference in the echo. He froze for an
instant as he cunningly turned his eyes to look out of their corners.
He discovered the swift approach of the spectator and turned to
look.
Rearing Bill’s face convulsed. A regular gorilla expression of
ugliness and cruelty crossed his features. He had clicked his teeth
and shaken his tangled mane, fluffing up his steel black whiskers. At
sight of the interrupter he shrank in precisely the same way that
Odd Jobbing Det had done, and lines of cruel satisfaction changed to
the same quivering of terror and pleading.
“I didn’t mean nothing! I didn’t mean nothing! I were jes’ foolin’!”
Rearing Bill’s voice rose higher and shriller. “I wa’n’t really goin’ to
hurt ’im, Mister Benson! Hones’—honest!”
“You lie!” the other exclaimed, cuffing the big face backhandedly.
Under cover of the stinging blow, Benson snatched the huge
revolver from the loose grasp of the bully’s hand.
 Then with the barrel of the weapon Benson pounded the big
fellow across the floor, backward. Rearing Bill yelped, cried out,
choked and at last turned to run. Contemptuously, Benson gave him
a kick; and then as the bully yelled he fired the big gun at the floor
under him so that the huge boots bobbed high and thumped to
frantic efforts at escape, crashing out into the night. Outside Rearing
Bill raced, plunging to the swayback drayhorse, and he rode furiously
away in the dark, heading up Snake Creek.
When he was out of hearing, his nervous yelps lost away in the
Bad Land distance, the crowd came back into Squint Legere’s
barroom to see what miracle had changed the echo of Rearing Bill’s
whoops. They found the other stranger, Benson, unloading Rearing
Bill’s revolver of the yellow stained ivory handles. Bystanders
whispered excitedly at what this fellow had done, barehanded, right
after calling Rearing Bill a skunk.
“My lan’!” Tid Ricks gasped. “I never hoped to see anybody brave
as that—my, gracious! He just acted like he wa’n’t ’fraid of nothing in
the world, yes, sir! Why, he slapped that big feller ’fore he even took
his gun away! It was the nerviest thing anybody eveh did get to
see!”
Squint Legere did the honors. Benson just must take a drink.
“I’ll take one,” he assented, “and no more.”
He meant it. No one urged, or even suggested, a second drink.
Benson went to the night clerk for his room key. Legere checked him
at the foot of the stairs.
“Excuse me,” Legere said. “’Course, I mind my own business—but
you knew him?”
“Oh, yes! Went to school together.”
“That so! Back East, I expect?”
“Yes, Minnesota.”
“That makes me think. You’re Benson—Robert Benson,” Legere
said, “I see by the register.”
“Oh, yes!”
“Not—uh—not Patient Bob—uh?”
 “Why—” the flicker of a reminiscent smile crossed his face—“I’ve
been called that—”
“Shu-u!” Squint exclaimed, softly. “’Course, I mind my own
business, Mister Benson!”
“’Course, know that. Well, goodnight!”
Squint Legere returned to the bar where he was awaited with
interest by a curious crowd.
“He’s Patient Bob,” Squint remarked in a low voice.
“Not —— Say, Patient Bob Benson! Shu-u-u-u!” voices gasped.
“An’ I seen ’im settin’ theh all the ev’ing, reading the paper, cool
as you please!” Tid Ricks broke the silence. “Why, he neveh even
looked up when that old fourflusher come shootin’ by, no, suh! I
seen it with my own eyes. I knowed he was good. Same time I
neveh dreamed he was Patient Bob—but when he got to
goin’—’course—”
“’Course!” others assented. “Anybody’d knowed, then, he was
good!”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 15, 1928 issue
of Adventure magazine.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN EVERYBODY
KNEW ***

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