Worcester Democrat and the ledger-enterprise. (Pocomoke City, Md.) 1921-1953, 1940-12-20
CHAPTER 1

Not for anything in the world
would Leslie Richardson want Spike
Small to know she was so close to
weeping. Above the sputter of the
grease she heard the whir of the
nickel photograph. She stiffened
1t would be the almost historic "The
Music Goes Round and Round" It
always was! Leslie guessed rightly.
She drew a sharp breath. Then
Spike had already heard about the
quarrel.
81 can't bear it'll"
For a moment she was afraid she
had spoken aloud, but Spike made no
comment, climbed back onto stool
at the counter and watched the girl
speculatively. It was always fun to
make Sonny mad. He started to hum
the rollicking tune, then pitched into
the bread and ketchup pretending to
be unaware of her averted face, her
tense Shoulders. The first thing he'd
heard that day, was that Sonny and
her fosterfather had had another ter
rible row over the song which now
filled the little roadside eating place.
So, of course, Spike had pulled into
the Richardson filling station with
his big truck to get the latest bull
letins on the big fight.
DANES are funny" Spike unused
aloud. Sonny did not turn her head.
Just why should anybody fight over
a photograph record He couldn't
understand it. Not when they had
so many other things to quarrel a
bout. The old man was tough GUS
toner. No use arguing with him.
It was hot in the little lunchroom
on the Dixie Highway that June
night. Beads of perspiration stood
out on Sonny's upper lip.
make it snappy, kid, and don't
cook 'em too much!" Spike warned.
He'd like to have heard the row.
Sonny was a fiery little thing. Hope
she told the guy off. She didn't us
ually stand up to him. She was too
scared.
If Spike was intent on the quarrel,
so was the girl. It's violence had left
Sonny sick and weak. She had been
appalled, at her own fury. Color
flowed into her face as she remem-
bered how Dick Cawthorn had kept
her from throwing a plate at her fos-
ter-father.
But she hated that record so. And
she'd asked him please to let the
man change it. Richardson had re-
fused brusquely. It was a money
maker. Sonny had kept her temper
pretty well until Richardson remark
ed that she was more like her mother
every day. Then she had grabbed
the record from the service mans
hand, smashed it into a hundred
pieces at Richardson's feet.
Without even looking at her, Rich
ardson calmly ordered the man to
get another record to replace the
broken one. It was then Sonny turn
ed ON her foster-father. She had
said a lot of things she had wanted
to scream at him for a long time.
She had told him she hated her life,
the cluttered living-room back of the
lunchroom which she never found
time to keep tidy, her own bedroom,
her shabby clothes.
When she had stopped for lack of
strength, Richardson said coolly:
"Cook me some pork chops. I
want my dinner"
The girls defeat was complete. She
went back to her work. That had
been two hours ago, but Sonny was
still trembling from the storm. The
memory brought hot tears to her eyes
so that she could not see the cooking
meat. The song beat out its hateful
rhythm.
whats eatin' you, tonight?" Spike
asked, when she served him.
"The heatl" she snapped and went
back to wash the dishes.
Almost nine. In another hour she
would be free-free to lock herself
in her hot little bedroom at the back
of the store and cry herself to sleep.
Free, until six o'clock in the morn
ing when the night man left. For
Richardson was meticulous about the
help he paid. They worked their
eight hours. If Sonny worked the
clock around that did not matter.
Spike laid the money for his sup
per on the counter, lit cigarette.
Sonny knew he wanted to talk, but
she couldn't. AS a pretense she went
into the storeroom for more soap
chips. She heard car stop, the
screen door slam. More customers.
When she returned to the lunch
room, Spike was leaving. He nod