Joe was picked apart. Sometimes it was a word, sometimes a phrase, sometimes a complete sentence. Wylie became a wild-eyed, goading fiend. Miss Robb knocked on the door. “Mr. Munn, Mr. Wylie.” Vic Wylie looked at Joe broodingly. “You’re only a kid. I must forget that. I must sweat you until you give me what I want. If you can’t stand the sweating, don’t come back.” “I’ll be back,” said Joe. “Make it the early afternoon. I may be able to give you a half-hour; I may not be able to give you a minute.” “I’ll be back,” said Joe a second time. In the outer office Archie Munn, tall and thin, chatted with the stenographer. “Hello, Joe. Reading a part for Vic?” The actor studied the boy’s face. “When he gets through with you, you’ll have something.” Joe thought wearily: “I’ll have nervous prostration.” A cup of coffee at Munson’s began to revive him. Excitement stirred. At least, when you rehearsed with Wylie, you rehearsed. There was no hocus-pocus in a deserted office with a dead microphone. You sweated and you panted, and there were moments when you hated Wylie. But you were learning every minute. And, strangely, you looked forward with a kind of eager hunger to what would happen next. With Amby, nothing ever happened. Joe thought: “I’ll have to tell him.” He walked to the public telephone booth in the rear of Munson’s. “Why didn’t you wait?” Amby chided him briskly. “I came in only a minute or two after you left. Where’d you go?” Joe was still learning. When you kept an appointment at Wylie’s office, Wylie would be there. He might not be able to see you, but you knew that in advance. You wouldn’t wait and wait in a dusty hall. He said coldly: “I went to see Wylie.” “That’s exactly where I was going to send you. What did he want?” “I’m reading a part.” “Vic didn’t tell me that. One of my best friends; I guess he wanted to surprise me. A great pal. What show?” “Munson’s.” Amby became excited. “Didn’t I call the turn on that? Look, Joe, that’s big. Munson’s tops. He buys plenty of radio time; he spends plenty of money. You didn’t go begging Wylie for a job; he came looking for you. He wants you on that show. That puts you in the driver’s seat. Tell him you want ten dollars a show.” Joe had few illusions left concerning Ambrose Carver. “Are you still my agent? I thought agents handled salary demands.” Amby coughed. “I’m pretty busy, Joe. As soon as I get around to it—” “Sure,” said Joe, “you’ll tell Wylie.” He hung up. A new day colored yesterday and softened it and made yesterday’s sweating agony yesterday’s romance. Joe counted impatient hours until it was time to walk into Vic Wylie’s office. Miss Robb, the stenographer, greeted him as one had been admitted to an inner circle. Tall, thin Archie Munn cast aside a copy of _Variety_.