Overhead the sky floats like a gray and white balloon, as if it were a toy belonging to the city. DON QUIXOTE AND HIS LAST WINDMILL Sherwood Anderson, the writer, and I were eating lunch in the back room of a saloon. Against the opposite wall sat a red-faced little man with an elaborate mustache and a bald head and a happy grin. He sat alone at a tilted round table and played with a plate of soup. "Say, that old boy over there is trying to wigwag me," said Anderson. "He keeps winking and making signs. Do you know him?" I looked and said no. The waiter appeared with a box of cigars. "Mr. Sklarz presents his compliments," said the waiter, smiling. "Who's Sklarz?" Anderson asked, helping himself to a cigar. The waiter indicated the red-faced little man. "Him," he whispered. We continued our meal. Both of us watched Mr. Sklarz casually. He seemed to have lost interest in his soup. He sat beaming happily at the walls, a contagious elation about him. We smiled and nodded our thanks for the cigars. Whereupon after a short lapse, the waiter appeared again. "What'll you have to drink, gentlemen?" the waiter inquired. "Nothing," said Anderson, knowing I was broke. The waiter raised his continental eyebrows understandingly. "Mr. Sklarz invites you, gentlemen, to drink his health--at his expense." "Two glasses," Anderson ordered. They were brought. We raised them in silent toast to the little red-faced man. He arose and bowed as we drank. "We'll probably have him on our hands now for an hour," Anderson frowned. I feared the same. But Mr. Sklarz reseated himself and, with many head bowings in our direction, returned to his soup. "What do you make of our magnanimous friend?" I asked. Anderson shrugged his shoulders. "He's probably celebrating something," he said. "A queer old boy, isn't he?" * * * * * The waiter appeared a third time. "What'll it be, gentlemen?" he inquired, smiling. "Mr. Sklarz is buying for the house." For the house. There were some fifteen men eating in the place. Then our friend, despite his unassuming appearance, was evidently a creature of wealth! Well, this was growing interesting. We ordered wine again. "Ask Mr. Sklarz if he will favor us by joining us at our table for this drink," I told the waiter. The message was delivered. Mr. Sklarz arose and bowed, but sat down again. Anderson and I beckoned in pantomime. Mr. Sklarz arose once more, bowed and hesitated. Then he came over. As he approached a veritable carnival spirit seemed to deepen around us. The face of this little man with the elaborate black mustache was violent with suppressed good will and mirth. He beamed, bowed, shook hands and sat down. We drank one another's health and, as politely as we could, pressed him to tell us the cause for his celebration and good spirits. He began to talk.