“When was that?”
“Tuesday or Wednesday. Are some papers missing?”
“No,” said Joe, swallowing. “They’re here.”
Tuesday or Wednesday—three or four days ago. This wasn’t a finished script. It took a professional script-writer like Curt Lake to do a finished script. This show was a sample, an indication of what could be done. And his father hadn’t thought the script worth discussing.
All the fine fire of eagerness went out of him. Another egg. First he’d laid an acting egg and now a script egg. He tossed the script back among the razor blades and tie clasps, and closed the drawer.
CHAPTER 10
Joe Carlin “hung up his hat” in the radio department of the Everts-Hall Agency.
“Joe,” Tony Vaux said jovially, “I hope you won’t find the job dull. Over here we try to stay sane.”
Joe read this as a good-natured crack at Vic Wylie.
“How is Vic?” Tony boomed. “Still carrying fifty pounds of steam? They tell me a Vic Wylie rehearsal’s an endurance contest.”