"Dear me!" exclaimed Ojo, staring hard.
"What has happened to you?"
"Nothing much," replied the phonograph in
a sad and depressed voice. "I've had enough
things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock
a department store and furnish half a dozen
bargain-counters."
"Are you so broken up that you can't play?"
asked Scraps.
"No; I still am able to grind out delicious
music. Just now I've a record on tap that is
really superb," said the phonograph, growing more
cheerful.
"That is too bad," remarked Ojo. "We've no
objection to you as a machine, you know; but
as a music-maker we hate you."
"Then why was I ever invented?" demanded
the machine, in a tone of indignant protest.
They looked at one another inquiringly, but
no one could answer such a puzzling question.
Finally the Shaggy Man said:
"I'd like to hear the phonograph play."
Ojo sighed. "We've been very happy since we
met you, sir," he said.
"I know. But a little misery, at times, makes
one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony,
what is this record like, which you say you have
on tap?"
"It's a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands
the common people have gone wild over it."
"Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then
it's dangerous.
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