Amby had blossomed. His cane gleamed with a brilliant polish and his spidery mustache had taken on the elegance of waxed, pin-point tips. “Joe, my boy, congratulations.” The little man was bursting with effusive cordiality, but his eyes were shifty and apprehensive. “I’m delighted. Absolutely. I had the word a week ago you were slated to come in here with Tony.” Joe took that with an inward hoot. “Tony and I are great pals, Joe—like that.” Two of Amby’s fingers hooked together to indicate a close relationship. “Did you get a boost? Amby Carver’s telling you you did. Didn’t I bring you into radio? Didn’t I get you your start? I went down the line, all the way.” Amby was an open book. A future producer might some day prove valuable. But Joe had been given his cue. In this shop you smoothed everybody. “Thanks, Amby. That was nice of you.” “Does Amby Carver ever forget a pal? Didn’t I tell you you’d some day know you had me wrong?” Mr. Munson’s public relations radio counsel was no longer apprehensive. “I’ve brought back some _Sue Davis_ script,” he said pompously, “without my approval. Get a load of how I’m changing this show, Joe. Sue gets typhoid. She doesn’t feel so good, but she’s around. While she’s alone and getting delirious, she signs for Tice. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Will she lose the house? Suspense. Will she get better? Big suspense. Dick has to fight Tice in court to get the property back. More suspense. It’s colossal.” “Where’s Dick getting the money for a lawyer?” Joe asked. “That’s a detail for Curt to handle,” Amby said loftily. “He writes the show. I want to see new script by Friday.” He added, as he left: “We must have lunch together some day.” Tony Vaux’s voice boomed in the reception-room, and his step volleyed in the corridor. “Anything stirring, Joe?” “Amby Carver changing _Sue Davis_.” Tony chuckled. “Yeah? Wait until Curt hears that.” He picked the script from the desk and, as he read, he began to choke. “Typhoid? The fat-headed lug! Can’t you see it coming, Joe? He’ll have a doctor fall in love with Sue.” Tony held his sides and howled. “Typhoid! It’s a four-star final; it’s a panic. What wouldn’t I give to show this to Curt?” “Won’t you?” “Curt?” Tony pulled out a handkerchief and mopped a face that had begun to mottle. “He’d run out without his hat and try to pull Amby through a key-hole. No, no, Joe. This is where we do a smooth job with our eggs.” He called Amby at the Munson store. Joe heard the rasp of a briskly important voice: “Good morning. This is the public-relations-radio office. Mr. Carver speaking.”