In the broadcasting studio of the Port Cardinal Electrical Power and Equipment Corporation, the radio manager, sitting by the control board, whispered hoarsely to Douglas.

“Say, Raymond, where’d you get that line o’ ballyhoo?” he inquired.

“Was it pretty bad? I took a big chance on rewriting the stuff that the Montezuma people sent in. Their talk sounded like a pretty poor newspaper advertisement—awful old wise-cracks! I’ve been reading up a bit on salesmanship and advertising, and a big strong point is that you musn’t bore the public.

“I think people must get tired of hearing the usual stuff about the sponsors of these hours, and only a few of the big features have specially prepared talk, or a special comedy man for their private announcer. I ought to have consulted you, Mr. Magnus, but you weren’t around when we got here.”

“Hm—well, the Montezuma folks can break their contract on a piece of impudence like that, Raymond—but I must say it sounded pretty good, at that. It’s a toss-up whether their advertising manager will be mad or tickled to death.”

“If you can read my writing,” whispered Douglas, with an apologetic glance at the string quartet around the “mike,” “you might give these few notes I’ve made the once-over and tell me whether to take another chance.”

“Huh! You must be working after hours!”

“I worked all night on this stuff,” said the new announcer.

“I suppose your intentions are good!” exclaimed Magnus dryly, “but we’re not spending money enough on this station, Raymond, to boost any man’s pay a thousand or so a week. This is a shoestring proposition with us.

“But go as far as you like. Big broadcasters have special writers to dope out a line of patter for everything, but we couldn’t do that. Keep it up, if nobody kicks, and—you might get fifty cents more a week after the board of directors has a meeting.”

The somewhat disheartening conversation ended when Douglas rose to announce the next number of the quartet, and the manager went out.

He was back again near the end of the hour, looking anxious.

“The New York station’s canceled the next hour,” he said. “They’ve cut out the comedy for some important political meeting, but we don’t want that up here. What have we got for such an emergency? We’ve got to get prepared for these jams!”

Dora Perkins had just slipped into the room.

“Oh, let Douglas sing some songs, and I’ll play one or two numbers, Mr. Magnus!” she proposed gleefully.

“Douglas? Who’s that? Oh, yes, you mean Raymond here. Maybe we’ll have to. I can’t sing or speak a piece myself.”

“Let him announce ‘Signor Raimondo,’ and let it go at that. He’s got a lot of music here that he’s used with the Orpheus boys.”

“I can’t announce myself,” objected Douglas. “I’d have to hand myself a lot of bouquets, and I’d get so fussed that I couldn’t sing.”

“I’ll announce you!” proposed Dora joyfully.

“Huh!” grunted the manager.

“Oh, Mr. Magnus, don’t you like that?” she demanded, pouting a little and inclining her head to one side.

“Huh! We’ll get a reputation for pulling a lot o’ queer stunts over here.”

“Oh, Mr. Magnus, couldn’t I do the announcing—just once—if I’ll be very, very careful and discreet—please, Mr. Magnus!”

She turned her radiant black orbs on the man, pursed her lips as though they were puckering for a good hearty cry, and he fidgeted and grew red.

“Aw, have it your own way, this time,” he said grudgingly.

Douglas dismissed the Montezuma quartet with some subtle compliments for their sponsors, and then it was Dora’s turn.

“Evenin’, all you folks out there!” she chirruped, affecting a slight Southern drawl and accent. “This is Dora speaking. Dora Perkins—and I’m just as shy and simple as my name. I’m the little girl that plays the piano for you, you know! The great big announcer, Mr. Raymond, has been called out of the studio, and I’m just going to have a lot of fun while he’s away. You won’t tell on me, will you?

“You see, folks, somebody’s got to announce the next feature, and I guess I’m pretty brave to stand up all alone before such a great big audience, don’t you?”

“Cut it! Cut it!” wheezed Magnus. “We don’t want no dog-gone monologue, Miss Perkins.”

Apparently Dora did not hear him.

“And now we’re going to hear a vur-ry distinguished musician and vocalist,” she breezed on, “none other than the great Signor Raimondo; and I know you’re all musicians, so you must know all about him. I’m too little and shy to tell you all about how handsome he is, with his curly hair and great broad shoulders, and great big chest like a bass drum, but you just listen and you’ll hear his great big baritone voice in a minute.

“He’s going to favor us with ‘O Sole Mio,’ right from spaghetti land, and I’m goin’ to play for ’im. That’s some honor for a little girl, don’t you think. This is little Dora speaking—Dora Perkins!

“And oh—oh—oh! I ’most forgot! This is Station WXL, Port Cardinal, owned and operated by the Port Cardinal Electrical Power and Equipment Corporation—broadcasting on a frequency of seven hundred and eighty k-k-kilo—kilocycles. There! I’m all out o’ breaf. Wouldn’t it ’a’ been per-f’ly awful if I’d forgot that?”

“That’ll be all from you, for awhile, sister!” muttered Magnus. “You’re a bird, an’ no mistake! But the next time you get out of your cage let me know ahead o’ time.”

Over at Wistaria Lodge on the other side of the town a hush had fallen on the company assembled in the parlor.

It was broken by Ralph Atwood.

“Ugh—air! Air! Gimme air!” he gasped, affecting to crawl weakly toward a window. “And cut the switch, folks, quick! She might cut loose again. I’m going out—out into God’s great outdoors.”

“Hold on! I’m with you, Ralph,” said Ottilie Eldom, making for the door. “If drooling Dora pipes up again, I won’t be able to go to business tomorrow. My Lord, what are the Federal Radio Commissioners for?”

Mrs. Tredmore raised her eyebrows in disapproval. Miss Stark shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m sorry that we have these demonstrations now and then,” whispered Miss Bascom apologetically, “but it’s evident that Miss Perkins is not at all popular here now.”

“I think she was—excessively silly,” murmured Miss Stark.

“It’s odd!” said Dr. Hillary, “but a number of equally irresponsible persons have made their fortunes—in very large figures indeed—by behaving just as idiotically as that before audiences.”

Signor Raimondo was singing the Italian street song.

“I’ll bet money I know that voice!” declared Hubert Quirk. “They’re passing a ringer on us over at the works.”

“Raimondo is certainly very suggestive of Raymond,” said the professor.

“Really? I wonder!” breathed Mrs. Tredmore.

“How about it, Kitty?” asked Quirk. “Is that the boy wonder’s voice?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Kitty coldly; “I wasn’t listening at all. I’d like to read, if you don’t mind.”

“Righto!” Quirk returned. “I can take a hint without a sock in the eye any time.”

At the studio the manager leaned over the piano, on which Dora was playing the accompaniment to Douglas’s song with the mechanical ease of an expert familiar with popular music.

“He’ll do the announcing for the next song himself,” he whispered, jerking his head toward Douglas, whose back was toward them.

“Pl-ee-ease!” crooned Dora, and flashed dangerous fireworks from the black eyes.

“No—nothing doin’!”

With her eyes twinkling back and forth, from the music on the rack to the surly face of the manager, she made an impudent, but bewitching, little grimace at him; then the full red lips were pursed up suddenly into a rosebud, suggesting this time not so much the approach of tears as an invitation to partake of sweets.

Magnus grinned, with the half contemptuous indifference of a seasoned man of mature years.

Being within easy reach, he extended an arm over the end of the piano and playfully twiddled his fingers under her chin.

“Some little vamp!” he whispered.

She raised her eyebrows reprovingly.

The song ended, and Douglas turned to the pile of music beside him.

“Wonderful, Douglas!” said Dora. “There ought to be a radio grand opera company organized around you, dear boy.”

Then:

“Pl-ee-ease, Mr. Magnus!” she implored again. “Mayn’t I—just once more?”

“Aw, go ahead!” he snarled. “I may get fired for it, but—aw, go on!”

So Dora announced all the numbers for that hour, and as she found many ways to vary and elaborate the patter, it was necessary for the singer to perform but five times.

The evening’s program terminated with a broadcast of organ music from New York, and Dora waited for Douglas to sign off at eleven o’clock. She had been sitting in the reception room downstairs, but returned to the studio as the engineer was closing up the control board and setting things to rights.

“I’ll put all this music away in the storeroom,” said Douglas, and stepped out with the departing engineer.

The manager came back into the room.

“Well, you had your way, kid,” he said, grinning.

“Awfully sweet of you, Mr. Magnus,” returned Dora. “Awful sweet for such a cross ole bear!”

“Bears like honey,” said Magnus.

She laughed softly, but glanced at him with a timid air.

“And could I talk to the folks—once in a great while—just now and then?” she whispered.