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The signal oil program? The Whistler. That whistle is your signal for the signal oil program? The Whistler. I am the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadow.

Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Yes friends, it's time for the Whistler, rated by independent research the most popular West Coast radio program. And remember that every traffic signal reminds you, with new signal gasoline you do go farther than ever.

Look for the familiar big yellow and black circle sign that identifies those popular signal service stations throughout the West from Canada to Mexico. And now the Whistler's strange story. Delivery guaranteed. The hot afternoon sun wilted its stiff color, and the sidewalk sizzled under his feet.

Dark stains of perspiration blotted his grey palm-beat suit, but Philip Linden didn't notice the heat. Tomorrow he would be 500 miles away from the city, sitting high in the cool sieres beside a mountain stream, alone with cafes, away from everything and everyone.

They'd be able to make a fresh start. They wouldn't be that continual bickering those hours of torture when Kathy threatened to leave him. She couldn't leave him. He wouldn't let her. The next two weeks would bring her back to him.

Humming softly to himself, Philip turned down a flower-boarded pass to the white stucco bungalow and fitted his key into the lock. Kathy? Kathy? Where are you, Kathy? In the bedroom. You packing? Yes. Oh, come in and help you. My things won't take long.

Gosh, you don't need all this stuff. We're only gonna be gone too weak. I know what I'm doing. Well, of course you do, darling. Please, Philip, stop fawning. Sorry. Are you gonna take this old trunk?