That’s a good piece back in the mountains, isn’t it?
Yes, sir. I—I thought—Do you buy stamps?
Something that was like ice prickled and crawled on Joe’s scalp. A miracle was happening. Vic Wylie had prepared him for the miracle, and yet he had not expected so stupendous a miracle. One of the voices coming out the speaker was his. Not his exactly—but his.
Frozen, he listened. Curt Lake had written a good script. A show that was dying on its feet was suddenly alive and glowing. The story unfolded with a wealth of sympathetic feeling—a boy’s suspense as pages of the album were turned, the sudden finding of some stamps of value, an offer at last of thirty-five dollars. With the business completed, the stamp man was ready to relax, and grow mellow, and talk shop. But the boy, a fortune in his pocket, was on fire to be away. His voice throbbed through the speaker:
I can’t stay, Mr. Landis. Maybe I’ll come back some day and we can have a long talk. I can’t talk now. I—I want to get home.
It was the curtain line—a good curtain line. A curtain line for a good show. Joe’s hand, leaden, turned off the radio.
“Who was it?” Kate Carlin asked.
“Sonny.”
“Sure?”
“A little of his own voice came through.”