Pop was on the mike again:
If you’re a salesman trying to sell Bud some base—ball e—equipment, you’re waste—you’re wasting your time. Bud’s Tice—ville team ain’t—been going so good—
All the smooth, rich flow was gone. Pop, stumbling, sounded like a novice with stage fright. Tony Vaux’s red face had become a mottled red.
“What’s the matter with you, Pop? Can’t you read your lines?”
Pop drew himself up. “I can always read my lines. A slight indisposition. I assure you I shall be myself directly.”
“Are you sick?”
“Tony!” Joe’s voice was impulsive. “Give him more light.”
Red-faced, Tony looked at the boy and then at the dark day grown darker. He crossed the room and brought back a standing lamp.
“Try it again.”
Somebody came into the room. Pop’s voice, enriched by forty years of acting, rolled out the lines once more, gave them a tang and a flavor. And yet there came to Joe, as the reading went on, a sense of something missed, of something that did not quite touch. He made his last speech.