“Carlin.” Dennis tossed a script. “You’re Young Mr. X.” Lucille Borden said: “Hello, youngster. You know these people?” She introduced him around. He shook hands with Archie Munn, a tall, very straight and very thin man with an amazingly deep voice, and bowed to Stella Joyce, a small, bird-like woman with a bird-like, fluttering way of talking. The others of the cast of _I Want Work_ were shadows. He got away, out to the hall, and found his part: Announcer: And now we’ll hear from you, Mr. X—or should I say Young Mr. X? How old are you? X: I’m fifteen. Announcer: And you’re looking for work? X: Not for myself—for my father. He’s a tool-maker. Last winter he fell on the ice and smashed up his leg. He hasn’t worked since. It costs money to be sick and his money’s gone. The doctor says he can go back to work next week, but he has no work. And now my mother’s sick— John Dennis and the all-talking-together cast went past him. He closed the script. The parade ended on another part of the third floor in a long, narrow room next to the press-radio bureau. Somebody closed the door and the clatter of the machines, bringing in news from all parts of the world, was still. Dennis walked past a dead rehearsal microphone and sat at a table. There was a telephone on the table. “Twice around the mike,” said Dennis, “coming in on the live end and passing out on the dead end. Let’s go.” It had all been written into the beginning of the script. The cast came down upon the mike. Voices implored: “Give me work! I must have something to do. I want a job! My father needs work badly....” The second lap was completed. The announcer swung in with his introduction. The show was on. It was, to Joe, an amazing rehearsal. Actors walked to the mike as their bits came up, walked away as they finished. Nobody, apparently, paid any attention; nobody listened. When the telephone rang and Dennis answered, the reading of parts went right on. Those not at the mike conversed in undertones. It was all haphazard, without order, a sort of chaos. “We’ll run through it again,” said Dennis. “Carlin, not so fluent. You’re supposed to be a fifteen-year-old kid. You’ve been brought into a studio to plead for your father; you’re nervous. Stumble a bit.” Before the cast could start another circle of the mike the telephone rang. “Yes,” said Dennis. “I’ll be right back.” He stood up. “Ten to-morrow morning,” he said abruptly and hurried from the room. Lucille shrugged. “Well, that’s radio. We may have to come back half a dozen times.” Why grumble, Joe reflected, if you earned six dollars for each rehearsal? A new wonder grew on him. In all the madcap confusion and lackadaisical inattention of the rehearsal, John Dennis had heard him read his part. Later, in the McCoy building, he spoke of this to Amby. “That’s radio,” said the agent. “It’s like no other business in the world.”