“Darling,” Lois murmured, leaning heavily against her escort.

Foster tried to think. It was difficult.

“Lois,” he finally said, “haven’t I got another song to write?”

“It’ll keep.”

“No. That torch song. Taliaferro wants it Friday.”

“That’s four days away.”

“Now I’m here, I might as well get the song,” Foster said, with alcoholic insistence, and stood up.

“Kiss me,” Lois murmured, leaning toward him.

He obeyed, though he had a feeling that there was more important business to be attended to. Then he stared around, located the juke-box, and went toward it.

“Hello, there,” he said, patting the sleek, glowing sides. “I’m back. Drunk, too. But that’s all right. Let’s have that song.”

The juke-box was silent. Foster felt Lois touch his arm.

“Come on back. We don’t want music.”

“Wait a minute, hon.”

Foster stared at the juke-box. Then he laughed.

“I know,” he said, and pulled out a handful of change. He slid a nickel into the coin-lever and pushed the lever hard.

Nothing happened.

“Wonder what’s wrong with it?” Foster muttered. “I’ll need that song by Friday.”

He decided that there were a lot of things he didn’t know about, and ought to. The muteness of the juke-box puzzled him.

All of a sudden he remembered something that had happened weeks ago, the blond man who had attacked the juke-box with a hatchet and had only got shocked for his pains. The blond man he vaguely recalled, used to spend hours en tête-à-tête with the juke-box.

“What a dope!” Foster said 

 Prev. P 12/15 next