“I’ll let you write the answer,” Wylie said. “Radio wants the good will of the public; it can’t let itself get hurt. I’ll go to every station in the city and show them how they’ve opened their doors to somebody who’ll hurt them in the end. How long do you think it will be before they bar you? Who do you think they’ll listen to, a gyp agent or Vic Wylie?”
It didn’t take Amby long to write the answer. If the stations tossed him out.... He had come to this meeting wearing spats and a panama and sporting a jaunty cane. He ran the cane thoughtfully through one hand.
Wylie glowered. “Speak fast.”
“To-morrow,” Amby said reluctantly. He could find no “out”; he had to take it. He smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. Wylie opened the door.
Joe swung around from the window.
Amby’s cane made a flourish. “Joe, Vic and I have had a long talk about you. No time to give it all to you now.... An agent isn’t all pocket-book, Joe. Sometimes he sees big things shaping up and he plays ball. He voluntarily shortens his end. This gives an actor more incentive. You see, Joe?”
Joe was expressionless.
“I mean I’m clipping myself. I’m cutting my end from fifty to ten.”
Joe stared, steady, unblinking.
“You won’t need Joe to-day, Vic?” Amby asked, ill-at-ease.