“To look around a studio; to see another mike.” Amby picked up the check. “You’re not quitting, Joe. You can’t.”
The boy bit his lips.
“My office,” Amby announced briskly. “About noon to-morrow.”
Riding home on a Northend bus, Joe stared out at passing corners and saw none of them. Amby was right. It got into you. You took a beating and came back for more.
“Joe,” his mother drawled, “let me see what real radio money looks like.”
The truth had to be told. “We get paid only if a show has a sponsor.”
Tom Carlin laid down his newspaper. “What’s that? Didn’t you say there was a scale of twenty-one dollars...?”
“My mistake,” said Joe, expressionless. “The scale is only for big-time stations. We take our pay in experience.”
“Humph! I pay my clerks every Saturday.”
“This is radio,” said Joe, and went upstairs to wash.