it.

“That juke-box. Where’d it come from?”

“I don’t know,” Austin said. “It was here before I came.”

“Well, who puts new records in it?”

“The company, I suppose.”

“Ever see ’em do it?”

Austin thought. “Can’t say I have. I guess the man comes around when the other bartender’s on duty. It’s got a new set of records on every day, though. That’s good service.”

Foster made a note to ask the other bartender about it. But there was no time. For, the next day, he kissed Lois Kennedy.

That was a mistake. It was the booster charge. The next thing Jerry Foster knew, he was making the rounds with Lois, and it was after dark, and they were driving unsteadily along the Sunset Strip, discussing life and music.

“I’m going places,” Foster said, dodging an oddly ambulatory telephone pole. “We’re going places together.”

“Oh, honey!” Lois said.

Foster stopped the car and kissed her.

“That calls for another drink,” he remarked. “Is that a bar over there?”

The night wore on. Foster hadn’t realized he had been under a considerable strain. Now the lid was off. It was wonderful to have Lois in his arms, to kiss her, to feel her hair brushing his cheek. Everything became rosy.

Through the rosy mist he suddenly saw the face of Austin.

“The same?” Austin inquired.

Foster blinked. He was sitting in a booth, with Lois beside him. He had his arm around the girl, and he had an idea he had just kissed her.

“Austin,” he said, “how long have we been here?”

“About an hour. Don’t you remember, Mr. Foster?”

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