Worming through Royal Street he was feverish with the prospect of new horizons. A whole stage to play with. You built shows, molding them and shaping them. The picture grew in his mind, expanded in his excitement. If he was some day to be a full-fledged producer, it was time he finished his first show. It would be something to look back upon, a milestone. All that the plugs needed was more direct strength, the right touch. He ought to finish the script to-night. To-morrow he’d be able to show it to his father. Kate Carlin called from the kitchen. “Aren’t you home early?” “I smelled apple pie,” Joe said. He watched her take the brown, fragrant pies from the oven. “I’m through with acting.” She almost dropped a pie. “Joe!” “It’s all right. You and Dad never really liked the idea of my acting, anyway. I’m going into production. I start Monday with the Everts-Hall Agency.” She followed him to the stairs. “Why, Joe?” “Vic Wylie advised it. I was out of the _Sue Davis_ show. He told me I was good, but that there’d always be somebody better. He said I’d never make big time. It was hard to take at first, but, well, Vic makes you believe him. You know he’s shooting straight.” He went at once to the bureau. He’d wade into those plugs.... He took the script from the drawer, and hard concentration gathered between his eyes. He knew exactly how he had left the script and now the pages were turned about, reversed. The frown deepened. “Mother, were you looking over some papers in my bureau?” “I don’t recall any papers. What drawer were they in?” “The small top drawer on the right.” “The only drawer I opened was the large middle one. I put away your laun—Oh! I remember, Joe. Dad ran out of razor blades and went to your room for a fresh blade.” “When was that?” “Tuesday or Wednesday. Are some papers missing?” “No,” said Joe, swallowing. “They’re here.” Tuesday or Wednesday—three or four days ago. This wasn’t a finished script. It took a professional script-writer like Curt Lake to do a finished script. This show was a sample, an indication of what could be done. And his father hadn’t thought the script worth discussing. All the fine fire of eagerness went out of him. Another egg. First he’d laid an acting egg and now a script egg. He tossed the script back among the razor blades and tie clasps, and closed the drawer. CHAPTER 10 Joe Carlin “hung up his hat” in the radio department of the Everts-Hall Agency. “Joe,” Tony Vaux said jovially, “I hope you won’t find the job dull. Over here we try to stay sane.” Joe read this as a good-natured crack at Vic Wylie. “How is Vic?” Tony boomed. “Still carrying fifty pounds of steam? They tell me a Vic Wylie rehearsal’s an endurance contest.” Joe grinned in affectionate remembrance. “I wonder how long Vic would keep that up if he had to pay rehearsal time?”