But Joe’s nerves were tight clamoring strings. He opened the book and found his page. “Robert Sherwood’s Abe Lincoln in Illinois.” He tried desperately for control. “Abe is at the cabin of Mentor, the school-teacher. Mentor remarks that Abe seems to do a lot of thinking about death. Abe replies—” Joe struggled to create a drawling twang:
“‘I’ve had to, because it has always seemed to be so close to me—always—as far back as I can remember. When I was no higher than this table, we buried my mother. The milksick got her, poor creature. I helped Paw make the coffin—whittled the pegs for it with my own jackknife. We buried her in a timber clearing beside my grandmother, old Betsy Sparrow. I used to go there often and look at the place—used to watch the deer running over her grave with their little feet. I never could kill a deer after that. One time I catched hell from Paw because when he was taking aim I knocked his gun up.’”[[1]]
Joe closed his copy of the play.
In the control-room the stout man said impatiently: “What does a kid of his age know about death? Why do they come in here and try to read stuff crammed with emotion? They’re not mature enough.” He pressed a button and at once the two-way mike was open so that Joe could hear what was said in the control-room. “Anything else, Mr. Carlin?”
“Deval’s Tovarich,” said Joe, “adapted by Mr. Sherwood.” This was more like his own voice. He brought another book to the mike. “Mikail and Tatiana, formerly chamberlain and lady-in-waiting at the Russian court, are in Paris without a franc. Tatiana has suggested that they go into domestic service as butler and housemaid. Mikail speaks in excitement:
“‘My sainted darling! I believe it is possible! I see myself again, throwing open the windows of the Imperial Palace and announcing: “Majesty, there is snow”—and then, with perfect grace, presenting belt and tunic to Nicholas Alexandrovitch. And you doing the fair hair of Her Imperial Highness, fetching her gloves, telling poor Frederiks that her Majesty will not be visible to-day. We were good servants, Tatiana. We will be good servants again! I must find my boots!’”[[2]]
The stout man sighed and touched the button. “Haven’t you anything a little more juvenile?”
Joe said an uncertain: “Well—” Evidently he hadn’t been so hot. He went over to the wall and brought back another book.
“How is he?” the brisk man with the thin mustache asked in the control-room.
John Dennis, director of programs for FKIP, shrugged.