“You’ve been working for nobody but Carver. I could expose you to the kid, but I’ll let him find you out gradually. He’s young. He’ll learn about the rat-holes of show business soon enough. You’re taking an agent’s ten per cent and no more. You’re not entitled to that, but the easy way is best. I don’t want you trying to make trouble on the contract.” The word “contract” gave Amby a sudden boldness. “A legal contract,” he blustered. “Nobody can get around that. Joe’s father signed.” Wylie leaned across the desk. “You’re mailing Joe’s father a new contract. A ten per-cent contract. You can give him any reason you like.” Amby sprang to his feet. “That contract’s iron-clad. Why should I take ten? Do I look dumb?” “I’ll let you write the answer,” Wylie said. “Radio wants the good will of the public; it can’t let itself get hurt. I’ll go to every station in the city and show them how they’ve opened their doors to somebody who’ll hurt them in the end. How long do you think it will be before they bar you? Who do you think they’ll listen to, a gyp agent or Vic Wylie?” It didn’t take Amby long to write the answer. If the stations tossed him out.... He had come to this meeting wearing spats and a panama and sporting a jaunty cane. He ran the cane thoughtfully through one hand. Wylie glowered. “Speak fast.” “To-morrow,” Amby said reluctantly. He could find no “out”; he had to take it. He smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. Wylie opened the door. Joe swung around from the window. Amby’s cane made a flourish. “Joe, Vic and I have had a long talk about you. No time to give it all to you now.... An agent isn’t all pocket-book, Joe. Sometimes he sees big things shaping up and he plays ball. He voluntarily shortens his end. This gives an actor more incentive. You see, Joe?” Joe was expressionless. “I mean I’m clipping myself. I’m cutting my end from fifty to ten.” Joe stared, steady, unblinking. “You won’t need Joe to-day, Vic?” Amby asked, ill-at-ease. Wylie said: “Not to-day.” Amby’s cane made another flourish. “All right, Joe; we’ll be getting along.” Joe Carlin did not move from the window. The agent went alone to the door. The situation was becoming awkward. “Hot, isn’t it?” he asked in the lame way a flustered man speaks who feels he has to say something. Nobody answered. Amby cleared his throat. “I’ll take care of that, Vic.” He was making conversation. “First thing in the morning. Nice lay-out you have here. I may move into this building when my lease runs out....” He gave it up. “Coming, Joe?” “Not now,” said Joe. The jaunty cane faltered on a flourish. Ambrose Carver opened the door and stepped out into the hall. CHAPTER 5