The chair spun around. “Mo—ther!” The voice that came out of the chair had a mocking, infantile bleat. Startled, Joe stopped. “Mo—ther!” Vic Wylie’s frantic hands were in his reddish hair. “You’re not a five-year-old brat whining for a lollypop. You’re fifteen. You feel you’re a man. You’re suddenly aware that the most wonderful woman in the world is fighting a hard battle. You want to help. Put that into your voice.” Joe tried again. “No, no. Not ‘Mo—ther’ with a valley between the two syllables. That’s the way a young child pules. You’re fifteen. You feel that you ought to be the man of the family. You’re long past the ‘Mo—ther’ stage.” Joe put snap into it. “Mother.” Wylie groaned. “Too abrupt; too cold. You’ve got to get that ‘Mother’ with a depth, a feeling.... Try it again.” Joe drew a breath. “Mother.” “Now you’re swinging back to the cute stage. Something in between the two. Get it.” A shaken Joe Carlin obeyed the will of an inexorable taskmaster. Sweat beaded his upper lip; sweat ran down his cheeks. For fifteen minutes he struggled to put into one word what a slave-driver wanted put into that one word. Then Wylie snapped his fingers. “Carry that last ‘Mother’ in your ear. That’s the inflection I want. Give me the rest of it.” Sweat dropped on page four of the script. Joe read: Dick: Mother, don’t shake your head at me like that. You must listen to me. I’m not trying to duck out of high school. I can get through at night. I can get college at night. Oh, I know fellows talk about night study and never get to it. But I know what you’re trying to do for me. Mother, I won’t let you down. But I can’t get it your way. How long would it take me to become a doctor? Ten years? What would I be doing for those ten years, living off you? Letting you hustle off every morning to a job? A man can’t let a woman support him like this if he’s strong enough to handle a job. Don’t you see, Mother? Wylie leaped from his chair. “I’m your audience this minute and I see nothing. No picture, no emotion. You give me nothing. Nothing but words. You don’t act. You read. Anybody can read.” Joe Carlin sighed. “Can’t you feel the scene? Can’t you see it? Are you a stick?” The producer appeared to be on the verge of horrified tears. “Take eight words: ‘A man can’t let a woman support him—’ Delicious. Remember, this is from a fifteen-year-old boy. Delicious comedy. But it’s comedy touched with pathos, and the high courage of youth, and the glorious dreams of the young. This boy must speak as a man. Doesn’t he call himself a man? A man’s speech with the boy showing through. Act it. Live it. The man with the boy showing through. Sir Galahad in knickers.” Joe was desperate. “If you’ll give me time, Mr. Wylie—” “Time,” the producer groaned. “There’s never enough time in radio.” He went back to his chair.