and re-echoed.

“Uh—helping hand,” he said hazily. “Helping—”

“A sleeper?” Sammy said. “Okay, Helping Hand in the third, at Oaklawn. The usual?”

The room started to turn around. Foster managed to nod. After a time he discovered that Sammy was gone. He saw his drink on the juke-box, next to his hat, and swallowed the cool liquid in three quick gulps. Then he bent and stared into the cryptic innards of the automatic phonograph.

“It can’t be,” he whispered. “I’m drunk. But not drunk enough. I need another shot.”

A quarter rolled out of the coin-return slot, and Foster automatically caught it.

“No!” he gulped. “Oh-h-h!” He stuffed his pockets with the booty from the hat, held on to his glass with the grip of a drowning man, and went toward the bar. On the way he felt someone touch his sleeve.

“Jerry,” Betty said. “Please.”

He ignored her. He went on to the bar and ordered another drink.

“Look, Austin,” he said. “That juke-box you got back there. Is it working all right?”

Austin squeezed a lime. He didn’t look up.

“I don’t hear any complaints.”

“But—”

Austin slid a replenished glass toward Foster.

“Excuse me,” he said, and went to the other end of the bar.

Foster stole a look at the juke-box. It sat against the wall glowing enigmatically.

“I don’t exactly know what to think,” he said to no one in particular.

A record started playing. The juke-box sang throatily:

“ ‘Leave us face it, we’re in love....’ ”

 Prev. P 4/15 next