Announcer: And now we’ll hear from you, Mr. X—or should I say Young Mr. X? How old are you?
X: I’m fifteen.
Announcer: And you’re looking for work?
X: Not for myself—for my father. He’s a tool-maker. Last winter he fell on the ice and smashed up his leg. He hasn’t worked since. It costs money to be sick and his money’s gone. The doctor says he can go back to work next week, but he has no work. And now my mother’s sick—
John Dennis and the all-talking-together cast went past him. He closed the script.
The parade ended on another part of the third floor in a long, narrow room next to the press-radio bureau. Somebody closed the door and the clatter of the machines, bringing in news from all parts of the world, was still. Dennis walked past a dead rehearsal microphone and sat at a table. There was a telephone on the table.
“Twice around the mike,” said Dennis, “coming in on the live end and passing out on the dead end. Let’s go.”
It had all been written into the beginning of the script. The cast came down upon the mike. Voices implored:
“Give me work! I must have something to do. I want a job! My father needs work badly....”
The second lap was completed. The announcer swung in with his introduction. The show was on.