Henri was absorbed with the leader of a Swedish Glee Club as Betty
entered the office. She waited until their conversation was finished.
Still, Henri had nothing to say.
“Darn you, Henri,” Betty despaired, “if you forgot to tune in—”
“That’s just what I did,” Henri apologized. “This glee club guy came
along. How was he?”
“He was—”
“I mean his program, Betty, I know all about his being a nice young
man.”
Miss Matthews, in charge of the filing case, tittered.
“Oh, you all give me a pain,” Betty flared. “If it was some wop with
black sideburns, you’d have seen he got a ‘break.’ I don’t care nothing
about him, personally, but if you let him get away you’ll be passing up
a good bet.”
“He’s got nice eyes,” Henri agreed, exasperatingly.
“And such broad shoulders,” mimicked Al Somers.
Betty knew then that in her absence the whole office staff had started
with its joke, and it was a bunch that could razz the life out of
anybody.
“Just you wait,” she demanded, “until the applause mail starts coming
in.”
She wished that she had not let them see that quiver to her chin.
Nor did any of them let up when, as the days passed, Huntley’s Half Hour
of Harmony brought in just three missives. The station opened all fan
mail unless it was plainly of a personal nature. Much of the fan mail
was addressed directly to the station, and the comment covered a variety
of features.
One of the three communications concerning Mr. Huntley’s initial radio
effort bore the postmark of a certain little town down State, and, while
it spoke in glowing terms of the program, the writer, before closing,
advised the entertainer to guard against gunmen and foolish flappers. In
Henri’s opinion, the parental touch offset the value of the applause
which the document contained.
There was a second letter so filled with inside radio lingo that one of
the girls posted it on the bulletin board. When Betty, coming back from
lunch, saw it there, she tore it into small bits.
And the third letter, suggesting that the genius presenting the Half
Hour of Harmony be immediately “signed up,” never reached Henri’s hands.
Knowing who it was from, despite the signature, Betty cherished it for
its handwriting, but she credited it on her mail count without turning
it in as evidence.
“Three letters,” Henri commented, sarcastically, as he scanned the daily
reports. “Shows that at least he was on the air. Otherwise might have
thought Max never turned on the switch for him.
It made Betty almost hate the “unseen audience.” What was the matter
with the boobs? Silence—utter silence, after a fellow had done his best.
“You talk about mail,” Betty complained to Henri and the bunch in
general. “No wonder ‘Uncle Dick’ gets it from the ‘kiddies’ who want a
ride on the train.” Betty talked fast when angry. “And the Miracle
Quartet—don’t they beg for folks to write in for their free booklet on
manicuring? You call it all applause mail. And what does Mme. Le Fleur
do? I’ve heard her.”
Betty provided an imitation. “She says: ‘I’d be so pleased to learn of
what your reception to my program was like.’ Knows she’ll get all the
bugs who think they’ve got the best set in the neighborhood.” Her lips
tightened. “I haven’t handled the mail for six months at this studio
without knowing the tricks.”
“Listen, Betty.” Henri was speaking in earnest now. She had piqued him
with her criticism. “I haven’t heard this baby of yours, but if he’s got
radio personality I’ll give him all the chance in the world. I see he’s
crashed the gate so far as you are concerned, but you’re only one in a
wide public. He goes on twice more, and if he pulls a dozen legitimate
letters—I said legitimate—we’ll talk business.”
Betty faced them all with her head thrown back. “I want you all to know
here and now that I don’t care anything about him, one way or another.”
“Oh, we know that, Betty,” Henri grinned.