Anger grew in the man. “Kate, I don’t like this. Apparently the station gets a lot of entertainment for nothing. I don’t like to see Joe exploited....”
“Is it exploitation,” Kate Carlin asked quietly, “or a condition radio hasn’t yet solved? It must have been a shock to him. He’s taking it well.”
“Sometimes,” Tom Carlin said at last, “I wonder if you’re very wise or whether you’re spoiling him.” He found Joe in the bathroom. “You may need a little money,” he said, and handed his son five dollars.
Emotion made Joe’s voice gruff. “Dad, you’re—you’re tops.”
Next morning some cash in his pocket raised his spirits and youth’s eternal hope flowed in him again. At noon he was on the sixth floor of the McCoy Building. Amby’s office door was locked. To-day, instead of waiting, he went back to the elevators.
“Seen Carver?” he asked.
“Carver’s been in and gone out,” the operator told him.
Joe went out, too. He had no heart to wait for hours in the dusty hall—not so soon after yesterday. July heat made the narrow streets sultry. He didn’t want to go home, and neither did he want to make a round of the studios. Not to-day. He thought of Vic Wylie. Presently he was walking toward Royal Street.
Amby had once pointed out the building in which Wylie had offices. Joe found a line on the directory board. VIC WYLIE PRODUCTIONS, 921. In the outer office of 921 a young, rosy-cheeked stenographer talked into a telephone.
“He didn’t say, Mr. Lake. I know he’s read the script.” She looked at Joe. “Have you an appointment?” Before Joe could speak the telephone rang again. “Mr. Munn? Mr. Wylie would like you to be here about four. Yes, to read a part.”