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it. It was an aisle seat, and whoever was sitting in the seat next to mine was only a shadowy figure to me. I automatically opened my bag to get out my handkerchief in case of emergency —and there, looking up at me, was the picture of Russell I always carried with me. There was his almost too-curly hair, there was his smile, his large blue eyes. Instantly, my temporary state of false serenity vanished. Without knowing or caring where I was or what other people thought — I burst into tears. I was beyond anything but sobbing misery.
Instantly a harsh masculine voice cut into my consciousness — and my sobs. "Stop that at once!" it snapped.
I was so astounded that I mechanically obeyed; then I was furiously angry. I turned to stare at the speaker and saw the man next to me — a tall, bony, red-headed man in his early thirties, who was, I thought, the homeliest man I had ever seen in my life.
T WAS absolutely burning with anger. A I forgot my sorrow over Russell, the show that was going on the air shortly, everything. I drew breath enough to make some properly outraged reply — and my voice refused to do anything but give a ridiculous squeak. Then suddenly all I wanted was to escape this malicious, cruel stranger. I started to get up — but he pulled me back.
"Oh, no, my girl," he said. "Johnny Olsen just announced that the doors are closed now. Nobody can get in or out until the show's over."
I flounced back into my seat, furious, and began again delving for a handkerchief. Russell's picture somehow came out of my bag and fluttered to the floor. Before I could stop him, the rude redhead had stooped to pick it up. Then he coolly studied it before returning it to me.
"If this is the cause of all those tears, it just goes to show what poor judgment some people have," he said calmly. "He's only a pretty-boy, my girl, a weak sister. You're lucky if some one else beat you to the draw."
That did it. That opened my mouth and my vocal chords.
"I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself," I said rudely.
"Aha!" said the man, unruffled. Then he grinned from ear to ear. "Glad to hear that little Miss Sad-Face has a voice, after all."
I heard my own voice again — and again I heard it in astonishment. "Indeed I have a voice," I snapped. "I'm a singer by profession." Then I stopped, horrified. Why had I told him that?
We both sat back, and somehow now I was able to focus on what was going on around me. Johnny Olsen, ranging up and down the aisles, was picking out men and women from the audience whom he wanted on the show, and sending the chosen ones up to the stage. Nobody was hanging shyly back, either — on the contrary. Right now he was demanding through his mike, "Now I want a talkative woman — some one really gabby — to open the program. Any comers?"
Instantly a sea of hands went up. He moved around, holding his mike in front of various women's mouths, while they all tried to out-talk each other — talking aimlessly about shopping, New York, the weather, anything.
Then he said, "Now we want to pick three singers — the best of whom will be used on the program this afternoon. Who sings?"
Another sea of hands went up from the smiling, murmuring audience. But