This, Joe thought, was real coaching, coaching that went tirelessly into minute details, the professional stuff. He said: “I get it.” “Good.” Amby rubbed his hands together briskly. “You stand right there at the mike and practise. Hello, hello, hello. All kinds of hellos—pride, joy, dismay, surprise. Emotion all wrapped up in one word, Joe. I’ll be back.” Joe talked into a dead mike in an empty room. By and by it grew on him that his stomach was empty. But if he left, the door would close on a snap latch. Suppose he couldn’t get back? He tried for a greeting of gaiety, the light touch. “Hello?” The steady echo of his voice in the strange, empty room became appalling. Hunger and thirst finally drove him out. He picked up a sandwich and a cup of coffee at the soda fountain on the first floor of Munson’s department store. Amby telephoned the Carlin home at six o’clock. “What time did you leave?” Joe’s answer was short. “Quarter of four.” “Sore, Joe? Listen. Don’t get touchy on what you don’t understand. Staying all alone at a mike is discipline. Mental discipline. Discipline and concentration. I’ve been working for you. Got you an audition date.” Joe’s soreness was gone. “Where?” “FFOM. You audition Friday afternoon. Two o’clock. See you to-morrow.” “What time, Amby?” Amby was silent a moment. “Better make it noon.” Joe had to wait only ten minutes next day in the dusty hall of the sixth floor. Amby was, as usual, a cyclone of brisk energy. “Rushed to death, Joe. Got to arrange an audition for you at FWWO. We won’t bother with the other two stations. Quick now on a pick-up from yesterday. I come in a door. You’re a little surprised, a little amused to see me. Give.” Joe caught a chuckling, good-natured, rising inflection. “Hel—lo.” “Nice,” said Amby. “You’re learning.” He rummaged in a drawer of the desk and brought out a script. “_City Boy_. You take Al Treacy, Joe. That was Sonny Baker’s part. Always in front of the mike; don’t forget. I’m due at FWWO.” How, Joe asked an empty office, could an agent coach you if he was never around when you rehearsed? The question bothered him. Of course, Amby knew what he was doing, but.... The “but” gave him his first uneasiness. He had never before seen a production script. Fascinated, he began to read. Why, it had everything—dialogue, directions, sound. As he read memory stirred and came alive. He’d heard this show. It must have been two or three months ago. He turned back to the first page and there was the date of production. March 18th. Of course! To-day he became lost again in glamour. He spoke lines as he remembered Sonny Baker, the Al Treacy of the show, to have spoken them. There was one scene toward the end.... He searched the script and found what he wanted: Sound—Closing of door. Al: (Earnestly) Listen, Mister. I like you— Joe began to read the scene to a dead microphone: