“We will.” Tim’s eyes were wide open now. “Why not?”
“Do you suppose we really could?”
“You’d be surprised.” Tim leaned forward in his chair. “We pick all sorts of people right out of the air. As if we had a string on ’em.
“Little while back a man was telling about his adventures buying unclaimed trunks at auction and trying to find their owners. One very mysterious case baffled him. He told about it over the air and what do you think?”
“Wha-what?”
“Two days later he heard from the owner.
“You’re going to ask a million people to send that boy in the crimson sweater to you and to tell you his story. And they will send him. Someone surely will.
“But now,” continued Tim, “we’ll write your script.” For a half hour he pecked away at his typewriter. Then, with a sigh, he murmured, “A mighty fine story. That’s all for now. Tomorrow in Studio Six we rehearse.”
Four hours later the two girls stepped out on the brightly lighted streets of America’s greatest city. It was night. A slender, gray-haired man, with stooping shoulders offered them an evening paper.
As Florence took the paper and dropped a nickel into his hand she could not help noting how bright his eyes were.