“A kid without money? How you going to get him there? Pullman?”
“Can’t he hike? Can’t he thumb rides?”
“Are you nuts? Don’t you know hitch-hiking’s in bad? Do you want the Woman’s Club and the P.T.A. on our necks?”
“Do you want a script?” Curt Lake shouted. “Put him on a bus and he’s there to-day and home to-morrow. How long is Joe’s throat going to keep him out? How many miles does a hitch-hiker make? It’s all luck, isn’t it—who picks him up and how far they’re going. We can string it along as far as you need it. If Joe’s throat takes a week he’s away a week. He sends back post cards to his mother. He’s off stage, but we keep the spot on him.”
“What’s your curtain?”
“Rain. Some swell sound effects. Night and mother alone. She opens the door and listens to the rain. Buckets of rain. You get it, Vic? ‘Where is my wandering boy to-night?’”
“I get it,” Wylie snarled. “The last script-writer who used it was shot. He deserved it.” He clawed for his hat, clawed for his coat, clawed for the half-open, bulging brief-case. “It’s corny,” he groaned from the door, “but it’s a script.”
Curt Lake stormed out to Miss Robb. “Does he expect me to give him an Orson Welles show in an hour and fifty minutes?”
“You’ll give him a script, won’t you, Mr. Lake?”
“Vic?” The man was amazed at the question. “I’d give him my right arm.”