“A chance?” The agent rolled his eyes skyward. “You think Ambrose Carver goes out to the Northend because he feels like taking a bus ride? To-day you wouldn’t have a chance, but to-day isn’t September. By September I’ll have had you under my wing for three months. You and Sonny won’t belong in the same league. That’s how I do it.”
Joe’s blood ran fire.
Amby Carver’s hand made a flourish. “Eight to-night, Joe.”
Joe Carlin bought a Journal at the corner and waited for a Northend bus. His brain built golden, gleaming air castles. Next September he might have Sonny Baker’s fat part in City Boy. And there’d be other shows, other parts. Or perhaps some new sponsor would come along with a new five-a-week and he wouldn’t try out for the part in City Boy. He felt sorry for Sonny. It would be tough to play a part one season and lose it the next.
There were plenty of empty seats on the bus. Money? Next fall he ought to roll in money. He opened the Journal to the radio page. A column of gossip and comment carried a short, routine paragraph:
Sonny Baker, local radio star, left this morning for the coast to play in summer stock. There’s a whisper that Hollywood talent scouts engineered the engagement.
Hollywood? Talent scouts? That could mean only a possible moving-picture contract. Perhaps another Mickey Rooney in the making. Fame. The real money.
Joe Carlin thought in dizzy happiness: “And Amby says I’m going to be a better actor than Sonny.”
[1]. Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons.