took a loose board and commenced digging at the earth beside the back door.
“I can get in,” he said. “Son of a bitch, I can get in.”
There was a man in the back yard of the next house doing something to one of the front wheels of an old Ford.
“You better not,” I said. “That man will see you. He’s watching.”
Fontan straightened up. “We’ll try the key once more,” he said. We tried the key and it did not work. It turned half-way in either direction.
“We can’t get in,” I said. “We better go back.”
“I’ll dig up the back,” Fontan offered.
“No, I wouldn’t let you take the chance.”
“I’ll do it.”
“No,” I said. “That man would see. Then they would seize it.”
We went out to the car and drove back to Fontan’s, stopping on the way to leave the key. Fontan did not say anything but swear in English. He was incoherent and crushed. We went in the house.
“That son of a bitch!” he said. “We couldn’t get the wine. My own wine that I made.”
All the happiness went from Madame Fontan’s face. Fontan sat down in a corner with his head in his hands.
“We must go,” I said. “It doesn’t make any difference about the wine. You drink to us when we’re gone.”
“Where did that crazy go?” Madame Fontan asked.
“I don’t know,” Fontan said. “I don’t know where she go. Now you go away without any wine.”
“That’s all right,” I said.
“That’s no good,” Madame Fontan said. She shook her head.
“We have to go,” I said. “Good-by and good luck. Thank you for the fine times.”
Fontan shook his head. He was disgraced. Madame Fontan looked sad.
