Young Mr. Huntley showed up at the office shortly before it was time for
him to go on the air the following Tuesday afternoon.
He looked much as he had that first day when he had breezed in—the same
freshness, if not quite the earlier self-confidence. And Betty, in spite
of herself, experienced something of the same thrill she had felt on
that first occasion.
“Thought maybe you’d go up to the studio with me,” he began,
hesitatingly. “It’s my last time, you know—if I don’t make good.”
“No mail,” Betty reported in businesslike tones. “You can look at the
reports. Your second program drew just three less letters than your
first.”
“Didn’t ask my landlady to write,” he smiled, lamely. “I’ve been dodging
her. Can’t you come up to the studio with me to-day? You helped me a lot
that first time.”
“Guess I told you, then, all I know from a professional standpoint.”
“Just the same,” he pleaded, “I’d like to have you along. Those fellows
up there in the studio didn’t make it so very easy for me. You see, they
weren’t interested, like you’ve been—in my act.”
Betty got up from her desk.
The afternoon sunlight was filtering through the portholes along the
ceiling of the studio when they entered, and the far corners of the room
were in soft shadows.
“Last time, ain’t it?” Max, the mechanic, asked gruffly.
He made the connections for the number three microphone over by the
little organ that was used for hymns, and went back to his booth.
Finally, there was the flash of the red bulb.
“Bob Huntley announcing his own Harmonious Half Hour!”
He hitched his chair closer to the microphone. There was no life in the
metallic disk before him—nothing to be afraid of.
He cleared his throat and fondled the ukelele a bit. Then he started to
sing as he strummed.
Betty sat in the background.
He did have a wonderful profile! And he sure was clean looking. And, as
she sat there, he went from one number to another.
“How did you like it?” he asked when the minute hand of the clock had
reached the half hour’s end.
She forgot her peeve.
“I’ve liked it all along,” she answered wistfully.
“And I’ve liked you all along,” he said feelingly. “My program may be a
flop, but it ain’t as if I hadn’t met you.”
A warm flood ran through her.
“I don’t know as there’s anything so wonderful about me,” she said, “but
if there was anything to me, a boy like you would bring it out. I liked
you the first time I saw you. You can call me Betty.”
“And you can call me Bob.”
“Maybe,” she went on, “it’s because I couldn’t see any fault in you that
I couldn’t see any flaws in your program. I liked your program, but I
guess it’s going to be crowded off the air. No applause mail.”
“Maybe,” he ventured, “we could go somewhere together—if dad don’t want
to take me back—out somewhere and run a gas filling station.”
“You’re strong,” she admired. “There’s plenty of things you can do.”
“And if I did play the uke, it’d be just for you.”
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