Joe didn’t. “I saw him rehearsing a show.” “Then,” Mr. Carver said with brisk conviction, “you saw the best producer in the city in action. That’s Vic Wylie. Great friend of mine. Won’t work for any station—produces independently. A great pal.” The producer was again on his way toward the elevators. His eyes were the eyes of a man with fifty things to do and an hour to do them in. Amby Carver’s voice throbbed with good fellowship. “Hi, Vic! How’s the boy?” Vic Wylie looked around, saw who had called the greeting, glanced at Joe and back to Carver—and grunted. The elevator took him down. “A great kidder,” Amby Carver said jovially. “A rich kidder. You’ve got to understand a guy like Vic. Dramatizes himself. Gets up in the morning and puts on a rôle with his collar. Plays it all day. I’ll bet he’s doing a show with a hard heavy; he’ll be a Simon Legree until the show’s in the bag. To-morrow, if he’s producing a Pollyanna, he’ll be smiling like an angel and God-blessing everybody. A great guy. A great pal.” Another elevator carried them down. FKIP was now broadcasting baseball from Chicago. The speaker in the car said: “Right over the dish, but too low. Ball two.” The lobby speaker roared. “There it goes—goes—and it’s gone. Mac hits into the right field bleachers—” They passed out into Royal Street. “Amby,” said Joe, “are you Sonny’s agent?” “Who?” “Sonny Baker?” Amby’s laugh rolled out, mellow and deep. “Joe, that’s funny. A great friend of mine, Sonny, but you can’t stay in this agency racket on friendship. You got to have winners. Also-rans don’t pay off.” “But isn’t Sonny—” “A winner? Momentarily, Joe; momentarily. He had no competition last season. He happened to be the only available juvenile who had anything on the ball. That happens in radio sometimes, when you get away from the big broadcasting centers like New York, Chicago, and Hollywood. The parts were there and he fell into them. One was a good, fat part. Next season when he auditions for a show, he’ll find somebody named Joe Carlin reading script.” “The fat part,” said Joe, “was that in _City Boy_.” “That was it.” “You—” Joe had to wait a moment. “You think I’ll have a chance for some parts?” “A chance?” The agent rolled his eyes skyward. “You think Ambrose Carver goes out to the Northend because he feels like taking a bus ride? To-day you wouldn’t have a chance, but to-day isn’t September. By September I’ll have had you under my wing for three months. You and Sonny won’t belong in the same league. That’s how I do it.” Joe’s blood ran fire. Amby Carver’s hand made a flourish. “Eight to-night, Joe.”