“Good.” Amby rubbed his hands together briskly. “You stand right there at the mike and practise. Hello, hello, hello. All kinds of hellos—pride, joy, dismay, surprise. Emotion all wrapped up in one word, Joe. I’ll be back.”
Joe talked into a dead mike in an empty room. By and by it grew on him that his stomach was empty. But if he left, the door would close on a snap latch. Suppose he couldn’t get back? He tried for a greeting of gaiety, the light touch. “Hello?” The steady echo of his voice in the strange, empty room became appalling. Hunger and thirst finally drove him out. He picked up a sandwich and a cup of coffee at the soda fountain on the first floor of Munson’s department store.
Amby telephoned the Carlin home at six o’clock. “What time did you leave?”
Joe’s answer was short. “Quarter of four.”
“Sore, Joe? Listen. Don’t get touchy on what you don’t understand. Staying all alone at a mike is discipline. Mental discipline. Discipline and concentration. I’ve been working for you. Got you an audition date.”
Joe’s soreness was gone. “Where?”
“FFOM. You audition Friday afternoon. Two o’clock. See you to-morrow.”
“What time, Amby?”
Amby was silent a moment. “Better make it noon.”
Joe had to wait only ten minutes next day in the dusty hall of the sixth floor. Amby was, as usual, a cyclone of brisk energy.