Well, Josie was quiet and not very deep, but she'd built up a big passion for Cornball in all that time. Cornball, on the other hand, had come to worship the very ground Josie trod on. Worshipped the bed she lay on. So the next day was pretty dismal for all concerned, especially after Cornball realized that he hadn't mustered quite the expected response. By evening, though, they were talking again, and Cornball made up his mind to try once more. And if the second time it was in some respects a little better, in other respects it was a great deal worse. So the next day Josie went back to Los Angeles and Cornball stayed for spaghetti dinner with Jill and me and then got drunk on red wine. He was stumbling around the public hall about midnight for some unknown reason and suddenly threw up. He tried to make it to a window but the screens were on and all he could do was fill the sill. He was in no condition to tell us about it until the next day, and then even though Jill cleaned it up, we got our eviction notice.

But it was all right as far as we were concerned. My dischange was on its way. The war was over. We were going to New York.

it up

Cornball stayed around L. A. for a few weeks and tried to get on with one of the studio orchestras. He was really a hell of fine violin player. He'd tuck up there under his chin and lower his eyelids and play Brahms and he could make the music go right up your spine. He couldn't crack the studios though, so one day he signed up with one of the name bands. A big one, one of the best. That was in the days when all the musicians released from service still thought the public wanted the Big Noise. Yes, people talked happy but acted queer, and they really wanted things quiet.

Cornball was in the wrong league, but the fact was disguised from him for a while. He was making money for maybe a year or so; sitting up nights playing poker with The Man, rolling some pod-his name for it-now and then. Living, and living it up. No one could tell him he looked out of place; no one knew his own place then. The reasons were obvious; there was so little chaos, so little apparent chaos that no one realized how much actual chaos there really was. We all looked and hunted and dug and scrounged; chose one way and then chose another; leaped and fell flat, or maybe made it big. Cornball still thought he was making it big the night Jill and I caught his show in New York. I'd had it. I didn't know it, but I'd had it. As soon as he asked me why I was back in school again studying "That only leads to the grave, m'boy," with that cocky way of him, I knew I'd had it. So I didn't waste any words. "Hell," I said, "if that's the case, let's all take off for Haiti. I know it's not around-the-world, but we could get there."

"What'll we do for money?"

"We'll take the money we have and go. Don't stand on pessimistic doubts, ladies and gentlemen. When we run out, we'll earn some more, but we'll keep going."

"Dreamer."

"We'll make ourselves make something out of it. How else is it done? What do you say?"

But Cornball hadn't quite had it yet. There was a sudden wave of old romance that rushed over him, I could see that. "Yes,". . . it was, and then, ". . . maybe "... we should plan it a little. I've got a good income; another five hundred dollars would look good."

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