The juke-box clicked, and a new record swung across. Something must have gone wrong with the amplification, for the song bellowed out with deafening intensity.

“ ‘Chlo-eee!’ ” screamed the juke-box urgently. “ ‘Chlo-eeee!’ ”

Deafened, fighting the feeling that this was hallucination, Foster found himself beside the juke-box. He clung to it against the mad billows of sound. He shook it, and the roaring subsided.

“ ‘Chlo-eee!’ ” the juke-box sang softly and sweetly.

There was confusion nearby, but Foster ignored it. He had been struck by an idea. He peered into the phonograph’s innards through the glass pane. The record was slowing now, and as the needle lifted Foster could read the title on the circular label.

It said, “Springtime in the Rockies.”

The record hastily lifted itself and swung back to concealment among the others in the rack. Another black disc moved over under the needle. It was “Twilight in Turkey.”

But what the juke-box played, with great expression, was: “We’ll Always Be Sweethearts.”

After a while the confusion died down. Austin came over, examined the phonograph, and made a note to get the broken panel replaced. Foster had entirely forgotten the fat, unshaven, untidy man till he heard an irritated voice behind him say:

“It can’t be April!”

“What?”

“You’re a liar. It’s still March.”

“Oh, take a walk,” said Foster, who was profoundly shaken, though he did not quite know why. The obvious reasons for his nervousness, he suspected, weren’t the real ones.

“You’re a liar, I said,” the fat man snarled, breathing heavily in Foster’s face. “It’s March! You’ll either admit it’s March, or—or—”

But Foster had had enough. He pushed the fat man away and had taken two steps when a tingling shock raced through him and the small, cold, spot of clarity sprang into existence within his brain.

The juke-box started to play; “Accentuate the Positive, Eliminate the Negative.”

“It’s March!” the fat man yelped. “Isn’t it March?”

“Yes,” Foster said thickly. “It’s March.”

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