Bob related incidents which in other company would have been the cause of raised eyebrows, the bum’s rush, or even calling the cops. He confessed to crimes committed under the influence of drink, horrible involvements with other skid-row denizens, blackouts, jail sentences, narrow escapes from death. His audience listened tolerantly, respectfully, laughing once in a while, and occasionally someone would nod as if an anecdote had hit home.

Bob told of the loss of home, family, and friends. His wife had deserted him early in his downward progress. His mother and father had forbidden him ever to set foot in their home. His brothers and sisters refused to recognize him on the street.

“In skid row and in jail I seemed to have come home at last,” Bob said. “The environment made a kind of shelter, taking the place of all I had lost through alcoholism. I knew I couldn’t adjust to normal people, normal surroundings. I kept myself stupefied on drink and stayed where I felt at home—in the gutter.”

Willy was almost overwhelmed with a sense of compassionate brotherhood. True, he’d never been a drunk. Thievery had been his compulsion, separating him from decent companions and decent surroundings as effectively as liquor had done for Bob. In Willy’s mind he translated what Bob had said into circumstances which applied to himself and was astounded at the parallel.

Bob’s voice dropped to a confidential, hopeful note. “Well, one night when it seemed all that was left to me was a wretched death and a drunkard’s grave,” he went on, “by accident I found myself in the back room of a mission where an A.A. meeting was going on. I don’t remember how I got into the place. I think I might have gone in there with the idea of stealing a snooze under a bench—out of sight of the mission people, who might have wanted me to bathe and eat and get my clothes laundered. I needed a bath. Yes, I remember that much. I noticed that a bum, almost as bad-looking a bum as I was, moved away when I sat too close to him.”

Bob smiled cheerfully over the memory, and the audience smiled with him. Willy felt something run down his cheek from the corner of his eye. He put up an inquiring finger, found a damp streak. Oh, God, he was crying! Making an ass of himself! At the same moment he felt Mitchell’s hand patting his arm. Willy wanted to run.