"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me. "For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars. He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph—with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment. "Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"