“Vic,” he said, “I’m sorry. I still want show business.” Wylie sat with his unshaven chin sunk down on his chest. “All right, kid. I’ve laid it on the line to you and I feel better. If you want show business, you want it. The acting door’s closed. Try the window.” “What window?” Wylie said: “Production.” Joe was startled. A producer was an obscure figure in the background, never heard, never seen. A producer was part of show business, but— Oh, it wasn’t the same thing at all. He began to shake his head. Wylie was the old Wylie, snarling. “I thought you wanted show business.” “I do.” “No, you don’t. You want the spotlight and the fan mail. Look, kid.” Wylie came out of the chair and swung the boy about by the shoulders. “As a producer, you don’t interpret one part. You interpret all the parts. You set the tempo. You touch the strings and the cast vibrates. You take a script and make it live. You make the show, molding it and shaping it. You’re the show, all of it.” Joe’s lips parted. Here was Wylie’s strange power to move him, to galvanize him. Production took on a color of possibility. Hadn’t he been trying to do something like this with _Thomas Carlin Presents_? “I’d have to break in, Vic. Where?” “The Everts-Hall Agency. Tony Vaux. Tony saw you put a finger on what was wrong with Pop Bartell at a _Bush-League Larry_ audition. You’re a possibility. You have an instinct. You put your finger on a bad _Sue Davis_ curtain. Production’s no bed of roses; it’s show business and all show business is tough. But you have a whole stage to play with. A show becomes your baby.” Joe was no longer stiff and numb. A regret that he would never act lingered, but Wylie had cast a new light on production and had made it desirable and exhilarating. “I’ll see Tony this afternoon, Vic.” “I’ve already talked to him. He’s out of town to-day. You’ll be a glorified messenger-boy-office-boy-all-around-helper—” “I haven’t the job yet.” “Didn’t I say I talked to him? You go in Monday and hang up your hat.” Vic Wylie went back to his chair, jerked around abruptly, and shot out a thin, nervous hand as though it were a spear. “Do you know what you’re going to do, kid? You’re going to school and take a night course. Dramatics. When summer comes and radio’s dead, you’re taking a leave of absence. You’re going into summer stock. You’re joining some company playing in a cowbarn—” “I thought I was through acting.” “Did I say anything about acting?” Wiley rasped. “You’re going in as assistant stage manager. Maybe you’ll get some money and maybe you won’t. But you’re going to study stage business. You’re going to watch audiences and find out what makes them laugh and what makes them cry. You’re going to be a showman. Some day you’ll thank me.” Joe said slowly: “I’m thanking you now.”