I squatted a minute or so and then stood and started fumbling around through all my pockets. This is local protocol. Coin by coin, I spread a dollar and a half in silver out on the flat collection stone in front of me. A huge, powerful-looking colored man, new to me, hunkered down against the wall, smiled gently and added a quarter. Bootnose scooped it up and went to make the run for the jug. * * * * * I was, I guess, stretching the ground rules a little by the way I stared at the big fellow. But he surprised me mildly. For one thing, he looked in good shape; strong, no shakes, no fevered ghosts back of the bloodshot curtain of the eyes. And, apart from that, you don't find very many Negroes on skid row, at least in our area. I don't know why. "Jones," he said, softly, politely, "Wino Jones. You're Ed? Ed, this here is my friend Stanley." He waved a big hand at a wispy little man beside him. Funny I hadn't seen Stanley before, but there he was. That I want to make clear. Stanley was there; no question about it. Only he was such a totally remote, insignificant, unobtrusive little man, it is hard for me to remember him even now. Hard to remember what he _was_ like, that is. He wasn't colored. He was small. His eyes, his hair, I don't know. He must have had some or I would have noticed. And he had a sort of sour, distant, hurt bitterness about him, I recall, and that is about all I can recall ever seeing in Stanley. Except for the last time I saw him--he looked mean then. This time, I smiled and nodded. "Wino Jones, Stanley, welcome to our city, our little garden spot." "There now, Stanley," Jones beamed, "he can see you well enough. You're doing fine, Stanley, getting better all the time. You _do_ see him plain, don't you, Ed?" "Huh? Yeah, sure I see him. Why not? Does he think he's invi--" Jones interrupted me, "Look, there comes Mr. Bailey back already." Well, it was a little odd. But then, down there the odd is normal, the normal odd. I didn't think anything of it. I sat a couple of hours. One jug went and then another. It did seem to me that Wino Jones missed by a lot on proving out his nickname. At least he didn't love up the passing bottle as though it might be the last one in the world--which, as every skid-row pro desperately fears, it might very well turn out to be. Stanley's drinking? I didn't notice. After a while I wandered off. My appreciation of the fact that I was able to wander off was shored up again and I was glad enough to get back to work the next day without thinking anything much more about it.