I said, "I'm sorry, son, but I have an interview right now. Besides we aren't casting yet. Come back in a couple of weeks."
His grin never faltered, being of the more durable kind that you find on farms and west of the Rockies. His ragged sneakers padded across my Persian, and I thought he was going to spring over my desk like a losing tennis player.
"I'm your interview," he announced. "At least I'm Hillary Hardy, and your girl just told me you'd see me."
"You—are Hillary Hardy?"
"In the morbid flesh," he said jamming out five enthusiastic fingers that gulped my hand and jack-hammered until I broke his grip with a Red-Cross life-saving hold.
"Spare the meat," I groaned. "I have to sign the contract, too."
"I did it! I did it! They said I was crazy, but I did it the first time."
"Did what?"
"Sold the first play I wrote."
"This—is—your first work?"