Dick: Mother, don’t shake your head at me like that. You must listen to me. I’m not trying to duck out of high school. I can get through at night. I can get college at night. Oh, I know fellows talk about night study and never get to it. But I know what you’re trying to do for me. Mother, I won’t let you down. But I can’t get it your way. How long would it take me to become a doctor? Ten years? What would I be doing for those ten years, living off you? Letting you hustle off every morning to a job? A man can’t let a woman support him like this if he’s strong enough to handle a job. Don’t you see, Mother?
Wylie leaped from his chair. “I’m your audience this minute and I see nothing. No picture, no emotion. You give me nothing. Nothing but words. You don’t act. You read. Anybody can read.”
Joe Carlin sighed.
“Can’t you feel the scene? Can’t you see it? Are you a stick?” The producer appeared to be on the verge of horrified tears. “Take eight words: ‘A man can’t let a woman support him—’ Delicious. Remember, this is from a fifteen-year-old boy. Delicious comedy. But it’s comedy touched with pathos, and the high courage of youth, and the glorious dreams of the young. This boy must speak as a man. Doesn’t he call himself a man? A man’s speech with the boy showing through. Act it. Live it. The man with the boy showing through. Sir Galahad in knickers.”
Joe was desperate. “If you’ll give me time, Mr. Wylie—”
“Time,” the producer groaned. “There’s never enough time in radio.” He went back to his chair.
Joe was picked apart. Sometimes it was a word, sometimes a phrase, sometimes a complete sentence. Wylie became a wild-eyed, goading fiend.
Miss Robb knocked on the door. “Mr. Munn, Mr. Wylie.”
Vic Wylie looked at Joe broodingly. “You’re only a kid. I must forget that. I must sweat you until you give me what I want. If you can’t stand the sweating, don’t come back.”
“I’ll be back,” said Joe.