The Nightcap of Herbert Foster

Herbert Foster, looking drab and hunted, picked his way through the crowd. He was oddly stiff-necked and held his arms at his sides as he pointedly kept from brushing against anyone or from meeting any of the gazes that fell upon him. The bartender set a drink on the piano and went back to his post. Herbert dusted off the piano bench with his handkerchief and sat down, gingerly. Suddenly he struck an aspasm of dirty, low down, gorgeous jazz shook the air,. A hot, clanging wraith of the twenties.