Wylie’s elbows were on the table; his hands ravaged his hair. “Love,” he groaned. “A two o’clock love serial. The air lousy with love shows in the afternoon and Munson wants to toss in another one. A sure plopperoo.” A waitress set down rolls and butter, and the producer looked up. His eyes cleared. “You’ll get used to me talking to myself,” he said to Joe and broke a roll. Joe burned with curiosity. “Why does Munson want another show? He’s got _Miss America and What She’ll Wear_....” Wylie jabbed a wad of roll into his mouth. “That’s going off.” “But all the women in our end of town—” “We know the ratings, kid; we can tell you just how many listeners the show grabs. But it isn’t bringing Munson business. A sponsored show is advertising. It must produce. Not only listeners—business. If it doesn’t bring in the boxtops, it lays an egg. That’s radio.” Learning, Joe thought; learning every day. And then his thoughts were back in the book department of his father’s store. Thomas Carlin Presents.... He had based so much on the Munson show! Something in him crystallized to conviction. Clothing was only clothing, but books were romance and adventure. You could always sell romance and adventure. There was only one question—how? “Mr. Wylie, why does one show bring in the boxtops while another show fails?” “Kid, National or Columbia will pay a fortune to the man who can answer that.” Wylie opened the brief-case and laid a script on the table. It was the _Sue Davis Against the World_ script. “You want me to read?” Joe asked, incredulous. His glance swept the restaurant; tables, diners, waitresses. “Here?” Wylie’s hands were brusque, impatient. “I’ve heard a trouper speak his lines from a hospital bed. If you live that scene you won’t be Joe Carlin reading to Vic Wylie in a restaurant. You’ll be Dick Davis talking to his mother.” Joe read. Wylie picked him up on the first sentence; the sweating agony started. The supper hour passed and restaurant tables emptied, but at the last table a man whose hair had become wild goaded and harried a boy who tried to do miracles with his voice. The sugar bowl was upset and blocks of sugar, unnoticed, lay strewn across the cloth. Joe, draining a water-glass in a momentary respite, thought of something he had read in high school: “Genius is the infinite capacity for taking pains.” Sometimes the producer, frenzied, swooped on the accent of a word, sometimes the cadence of a phrase. A shade of difference, a mere shade. Often that was all Vic Wylie asked. A porter came to the back of the restaurant with mops and pails. The producer, hearing the clatter of chairs being lifted from the floor and stacked on tables, shook his head as though to clear it of a mist, stared at the spilled sugar, and was all at once quiet, inert. “What time is it, kid?” “Eleven-thirty.” “A long day.” Vic Wylie put the script back in the leather case.