 things are ought by prayer than this world dreams of. The Mutual Broadcasting System in cooperation with Family Theatre Incorporated presents the Win-Bang, starring Hal Perry, The Great Gilder Sleeve, and Beatrice Benadera. Bing Crosby is your host. Our Family Theatre has rounded out its first cycle of six months. This program was born on February 13 of this year. Born with the conviction that what America needs most today is a strengthening of the bonds of family life and that the greatest contribution we, as parents, can give to our country is that of raising our families and our children to be God-respecting, God-loving, and prayerful citizens. And during the past 26 weeks, men and women in the screen and radio industries here in Hollywood have felt a privilege and an honor to enter your homes each week to express these simple and fundamental truths in which we believe. For we are of the opinion and we believe that the most conscientious people are of the same opinion that there is no better and sureer way to preserve our national life in those traditions in which this nation was founded than to stand in the humble recognition that there is a God and that there is a God to whom we should pray, a God who can and will answer our prayers. We hope that you and your family, that all families will learn the truth of these words. A family that prays together, stays together. This is the little town of Placenter, Kansas, where DJ Latimer and his wife, Martha, have resided for 24 years. They're considered solid, substantial citizens. Their daughter named Valeska is married to Jimmy Meredith, a young continuity writer on the staff of the Continental Broadcasting Company in Chicago. DJ, how'd you like to do me a favor and make yourself a little money besides? Oh, what kind of a favor, Jimmy? Well, it's rather a long story. You've heard the Continental Theater of the Year, haven't you? Tuesday nights at nine? Oh, frequently, an excellent program. Oh, we almost never miss it, Jimmy. You don't write that, do you? No, but the boss wants me to. At least he wants me to submit some scripts. It's a freelance show. Well, that means the network buys scripts from anyone who sends them in. I mean if they're good scripts. Oh, I see. And you want me to write for the Continental Theater, eh, my boy? Well, not exactly, Dad. Oh, DJ, stop being foolish. You couldn't even write a note to the milkman when we went to Denver last summer to stop leaving milk for two weeks. Well, it was the milkman's fault. He was careless and read my note hastily, and he simply misinterpreted what I'd written. You know that's what happened, Martha. Well, let's not argue about it, DJ. What do you want him to do, Jimmy? Well, it's like this, Mom. Mr. Roberts, he's the head of our continuity department. Well, Mr. Roberts wants me to write some scripts for the Continental Theater, but he can't pay me because it's a sustaining show. Well, why can't they pay you for a script if you write one, Jimmy? Oh, sure they do, but it's different with me. You see, I'm on the staff, and the network has a ruling that a staff writer can't be paid for anything he writes that's sustaining. So the only way I can write for the Continental Theater and get paid for it is to send my scripts in under somebody else's name. Well, Jimmy, that doesn't seem quite honorable. Oh, don't worry about that, Mom. Mr. Roberts himself suggested it. He's just as anxious to get good scripts as Jimmy is to write them. The whole thing's a technicality and a silly one. Well, perhaps you're right. Certainly she's right, my dear. The entire structure of American freedom and democracy is based upon the supposition that a workman is worthy of his hire. I shall do it, my boy. Do what, DJ? Jimmy hasn't even told you yet what it is he wants you to do. Well, Dad's got the idea, though, Mom. I'll send him scripts, and then he sends them in under his name. They pay $250. What? I said they pay $250 a script. A penny for doing it, Jimmy? My dear. Then it's no soap. Either Dad takes the 50 or Jimmy gets somebody else. Your mother was a trifle hasty, my pet. How many scripts per month do you figure you can sell, Jimmy? All two or three. Mr. Roberts likes my style. Will you do it, Dad? Of course, my boy. Anything to help you out in any way I can. My way. Excuse me. What's the matter, DJ? Nothing. I just have an idea. I want to write down before I forget it. Nothing. I'll be back in a few minutes. I don't like it, Jimmy. I just don't like it. But why not, Mom? Oh, you know your father, Val. He's the sweetest man in the world, but he does have his weakness. She means Dad's imagination is an active one, and sometimes he relies on it for his facts. Well, he doesn't mean any harm, Jimmy. Of course he doesn't. He can't help it if he's an incurable romanticist. That's how I got the name Boleska. I wanted to call it Priscilla after my grandmother. But about the time I was born, Dad was lost in admiration over a movie star named Boleska Serrat. Hollywood is a great influence in Dad's life. He lives every movie he sees. Poor dear. Outside of going to a couple of American Legion conventions, he's never done any of the things he dreamed of doing. That's a lucky thing, too. Oh, I don't think you need to worry, Mom. Nobody will know it's Dad who's supposed to be writing those scripts. The actors get all the glory and a writer's lucky if he gets name credit at the end of the show. Just the same, Jimmy. I'm worried about it. But why, Mom? Because it's your father. I haven't been married to that man 25 years come next February 10th for nothing. I love him, but I know if there's a way for something to slip or come unraveled, he'll find it. These were the men and women who made this nation great. The unknown men and women who marched across a wilderness who built their homes and a new civilization. The record of their lives is romance. This nation is their glory. You have just heard The Romance of Glory, the 26th in this new series of Continental Theater of the Air. In the starring roles of John and Mary Fremont were Linda Fetherton and Rodney Bonnycastle. The Romance of Glory was written by Digby Latimer and directed by Staunton Trelaw. The Romance of Glory was written by Digby Latimer. Did you hear that, Martha? I'm not deaf, though sometimes I wonder why I'm not. Why'd you send in Jimmy's story under the name of Digby Latimer instead of DJ? Martha, my dear, you simply don't understand. DJ Latimer is all right for a businessman, but Digby Latimer is much more appropriate for an author. Good morning, Mr. Bloodgood. Good morning, DJ. Like to cash a little check, if you don't mind. That's what the bank's here for, DJ. Five ones be okay, same as usual. No, this check is a trifle larger than Mr. Bloodgood. $250, in fact. Well, must have turned a nice deal, DJ. Pay to the order of Digby Latimer. I've endorsed a Digby Latimer, Mr. Bloodgood, and then I've written DJ Latimer under it. Digby Latimer is my pen name. Signed Continental Broadcasting Company. Yes, it's payment for a little thing I dashed off in my spare time. You may have heard it two weeks ago last Tuesday on the Continental Theatre of the Air. Little thing I call the Romance of Glory. Have you heard that, DJ? Maybe you noticed right at the end the announcer said the Romance of Glory was written by Digby Latimer. Oh, can't say I did, DJ. Well, he said it. It's what they call name credit. All we top radio writers insist on that. I never knew you had the gift to write for the radio, DJ. Imagine a lot of people in Clay Center will be surprised, Mr. Bloodgood. I always felt I had the talent but like so many potential authors and many more plays, DJ. Oh, yes, I have another going through the works in Chicago. Usually it's a slow process but after the success of the Romance of Glory I imagine I'll receive preferential treatment. Don't be too surprised, Mr. Bloodgood, if I cash several checks like this one every month. And be sure to listen every Tuesday night at nine. I'll most surely do that, DJ. And when you hear the announcer say written by Digby Latimer you'll know it's good ol' DJ himself and not a reasonable facsimile as we radio folks say. I never would have thought it. I'd say that still water's run deep except the DJ's never still. Good morning, Emma. Morning, Asa. Any news as fit for the Clay Center? Clarion to print? Maybe. What'd you say if I told you DJ had a play he wrote on the Continental Theatre of the Air? Coast to coast. Listen, Asa, the Clarion's printed story is about two-headed calves and hailstones' biggest footballs. But Elmer Danbury'd fire me if I brought in yarn and made it look like Elmer's a radio writer. Just say, Emma, it's so. Not three minutes past I cashed a check the Continental Broadcasting Company sent him for his story. $250. Heavenly days. My stars above here we stand talking when I ought to be interviewing him. I just heard the news, DJ, and I think it's the most thrilling thing that's ever happened to Clay Center. Well, it was nothing, Emma, really nothing. Just something I dashed off in a few spare moments. How do you get such a wonderful story and such a beautiful ending? Nothing, I just dug it up. I'm working on an ending for a new play now. Oh, how wonderful. Yes, this will end with the words Ia Ura Naite Atua. Yes, my, what does it mean? That's Tahitian for goodbye, my love, until we meet again. Oh, how touching. How do you know things like that, DJ? Well, once many years ago a Tahitian princess sobbed those very words that she would not say. DJ, I never knew you'd been in Tahiti. In days gone by, Emma, the foreign legion went everywhere. Everywhere, that is, where the tricolor of France floated in the breeze. And you were in the foreign legion. May I print that, DJ? Oh, no, I'd rather you wouldn't, Emma. You see, Martha is acquainted with my, shall I say, adventurous youth. And she's made me promise never to reveal as details. But there are some things I could tell you, Emma. How many more plays have you any more coming up on the Continental Theater? Yeah, week after next. It's a story about the African Velt. I call it the Dark Continent. And is it by any chance based on the personal experiences of its author? You promise not to print this, Emma? Well, if you insist. I do. All right, then. Is it based on your personal experiences? I really prefer not to say, Emma. You know how people in a small town gossip. They're a game hunter in Africa. She'd deny it. Not for her sake, you understand. But for mine. You read the clarion today, my dear? Yes, I read it. Oh, yes. Did you by any chance see Emma Singletary's interview with Clay Center's famous radio writer, a man who happens to be your husband? I saw it. And of all the plain old hogwash I ever read, that was the worst. I did. Let me have that paper. If you were 40 years younger, I'd wash out your mouth with laundry soap for telling fibs. Maybe I still ought to. Mr. Latimer's next play on the Continental Theatre is titled The Dark Continent. A story about the African Velt. A little bird has whispered in your reporter's ear that possibly, just possibly, the story may be based upon experiences in the author's own life. But, my dear, I give you my word. I never once told Emma Singletary that I'd been a big game hunter in Africa. Well, you probably hinted it. And that's all that old snooped need. She'd believe anything a man told her. DJ, can't you stop it? Stop what, my dear? You know what I mean, telling those big stretchers all the time. Why, it's dishonest. Where's your decency, DJ? Taking credit for something that really belongs to your own son-in-law. But the lad wants me to. You heard him, Martha? Just the same. It's not right. What harm can it do, my dear? In fact, I haven't a bit of doubt. It'll help. People like to deal with a celebrity, you know. Celebrity fiddlesticks. Somebody just drove up out in front. Who is it, my dear? I can't tell, but it's a big car. Good grief, it's Mrs. T. Caterbury Millsap. What can she be wanting, calling on the peasants? Well, I'll go to the door. You stay right where you are. I'll go. Good evening, Mrs. Millsap. Good evening, Mrs. Latimer. Is Mr. Latimer at home? Yes, he's here. Won't you come in? Thank you. Well, this is a pleasure, Mrs. Millsap. How are you? Sit down here. Comfortable chair right here. Oh, thank you, Mr. Latimer. Can I fix you some tea, Mrs. Millsap? No, no, thank you, dear. I can only stay a moment. Mr. Latimer, you are probably aware that I am the president of the Ladies' Thanatopsis League of Clay Center. Oh, yes. A very praiseworthy organization, Mrs. Millsap. Oh, thank you. We think so. Our aims are the study and hence the deeper appreciation of literature and the finer things of life. That's something I've always believed in myself. Yes, I can understand that, Mr. Latimer. But why have you hidden your light under a bushel? A watchel? Why have you never before revealed that our little city may boast a genius? A genius? Oh, I see what you mean. Until I read the clarion this afternoon, Mr. Latimer, I never even suspected your literary talents. Ha! That is... Yes. Well, you know how it is, Mrs. Millsap. A man hates to blow his own horn. Oh, but he should when that horn is so filled with sweet music. He owes it to the world. Please, Mrs. Millsap, I'm blushing. Yes, DJ, he blushes easily. Well, he's a man. After all, what are men but little boys grown up? Mr. Latimer, will you do me and my organization a great favor? Anything you say. Will you address the next meeting of the Ladies' Thanatopsis League and give us a preview, you might say, of the Dark Continent? Why, I'll be happy to, Mrs. Millsap. Anything for culture is what I've always said. Oh, thank you, thank you so much. It's next Friday at two o'clock, and the Ladies are meeting at my house. Ladies, I'll be there. Oh, thank you again. You're too kind. Now I must go. I've really stayed much longer than I intended. And, uh, maybe not also have the pleasure of your company, Mrs. Latimer. Uh, I'm afraid I'm not very literary. Well, come anyway. There's a deer. Good night, Mrs. Millsap. Oh, no, no, don't bother to escort me to my car. See you Friday. Friday? Dee Jay, this time you've gone too far. Not at all, my dear. After I reread the script of the Dark Continent, I'll be able to make a very creditable talk. Maybe you could if you had a script. I guess you've forgotten you sent in the only copy. And Friday, being day after tomorrow, it's too late to get another from Jimmy. By George, that is so. Oh, well, what's the difference? I'll just make the talk without the script. Dee Jay, you can't do that. No, why not? Because you'll make a fool of yourself. That's why. You'll be the laughing stock of Clay Center. Really, Martha, I don't appreciate that. And I don't think you should talk about your literary inferiority. After all... After all, you forget. I still believe in telling the truth. I don't want to see you get up and have them all laughing at you. Well, Martha, I recall a great deal of the story. Besides, if I've never been in Africa, neither have the ladies who'll be listening to me. Well, thank you. Thank you very much, ladies of the Ladies Thanatopsis League. Your charming chairman, or should I say chairlady, has asked me to tell you the story of my next radio drama, The Dark Continent. Briefly, it's the story of Lord Manfred Chatsworth, a peer of the British Empire, who meets a beautiful Arab girl in the vast and trackless desert of the Belgian Congo. Lord Chatsworth has gone to Africa to hunt tigers. As he sails down the Nile in his falooka, as a kind of a native schooner, he hears the call of the Dark Continent, the rhythm of the tomtoms. Well, it was worse than I thought it'd be. I was prepared for almost anything, but not for hunting tigers in Africa. What was wrong with that? Nothing, nothing except that there aren't any tigers in Africa. Oh, well, they applauded me when I was through. Certainly they did, because Mrs. T. Canterbury-Millsap did, and she's the bell cow of that herd. The rest of them do whatever she does. You've got to stop it, DJ. That's all there is to it. Did you hear me? I said you've got to stop it. Don't you think that's for me to decide, Martha? I doubt if you appreciate my position. No, I don't. You're so puffed up with people thinking you're a radio writer, you've got to where you're believing it yourself. I wish you could have seen yourself this afternoon. May I present our famous fellow citizen of Gleeson to Mr. Digby Latimer. You standing there with a silly grin on your face like a wave on a bucket of soap suds. Let me finish my say. Next week the kids will be here for Christmas. I'm going to tell Jimmy he's got to put a stop to this nonsense he started. Martha, I forbid you to... Don't you forbid me. DJ, can't you see the way things are going now? You're building a house on the shifting sands of a lie instead of a solid rock of truth. But... Don't interrupt me. I know you don't mean any harm. Lies may be little things, but they do harm. I know you wouldn't want to hurt a fly, but you're hurting something in somebody a lot more important to me than a fly. And that's you. What was it all about, Val? I don't know. Mother started telling me something about Dad, and all of a sudden she stopped right in the middle of a sentence and handed me this and turned away crying. No wonder what the old boy's been doing. Oh, being Dad, there's no telling. This is Mom's diary. Do you think she meant for us to read it or what? Maybe she just couldn't bring herself to tell me what Dad's been up to. I bet this is her way of hinting at what's wrong. Let's read it. Start with December. Whatever it is, it probably happened this month. Oh, here's a page mark, December 20th. DJ spoke to the ladies' Thanatopsis League this afternoon on the subject of his latest radio play, The Dark Continent. Why the old fraud? Listen, Mrs. Millsap introduced him. He grinned and he bowed. Actually, he bowed. Then he started talking. Before I could stop myself, I said the old ninny. And Mrs. Bogus, who was sitting next to me, said, What did you say, Mrs. Latimer? So I said, I said the old ninny. Then I caught myself real quick and I said, I mean this Lord Chatsworth. After that, I kept quiet. But what I was thinking would have curled DJ's hair. What little he's got left. Oh, that's wonderful, darling. Why didn't you tell me your mother could write? I beg your pardon. I'm looking for Martha Latimer. Oh, she's not home right now. I'm her husband, Digby Latimer. My congratulations, Mr. Latimer, on being the husband of a woman who's soon to be famous. Well, that is Martha famous. Yes. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Wapples, Oscar Wapples, and I represent Templeton and Savage of New York. The book publishers, you know. I started to write, Mrs. Latimer, the good news, and then I decided not to deny myself the pleasure of meeting her in person. We are thinking of accepting the windbag. What a story. What quaint phraseology. What human interest. Why, we confidently anticipate it will be one of the greatest of the great bestsellers. You know. How can it miss? What an imagination your wife has, Mr. Latimer. That scene where DJ talks to the ladies tenors tops his leak. It's one of the funniest I've ever read. Hunting tigers in Africa. And when his wife in the audience says under her breath, the old nanny, it was just as though she'd actually been there. Don't you think that's funny? Yes, oh yes. Very funny. The American public will gobble it up. This character she invented, this DJ will become a symbol for every blowhard and every windbag that ever lived. You should be very proud of her, Mr. Latimer. Yes, yes I am. Mrs. Latimer is a remarkable woman. A very remarkable woman. She's all of that. As soon as she comes in, will you ask her to call me at the Travelers Hotel? Don't be the word of this to her, but I have an advance royalty check with me. $5,000 if she is willing to sign a contract with Templeton and Savage. I'm here, Martha, in the bedroom. Oh, I just got home. I met Mrs. Lumpkin and she told me... What in the world are you packing your suitcase for? Are you going away somewhere? Yes, far away. Oh, how long will you be gone? Uh, a long time. How long? I don't know. Well, you better let me get you some more collars as a dozen clean ones come back from the laundry this morning. Martha, how can you? Isn't it enough to drive the knife deep into my heart without twisting it in the wound? I tell you, I'm going away. Maybe forever. And all you can think about is clean collars. What in the world are you talking about? What am I talking about? You've pillored me. You've bared my shame to the world. And for what? For money. Filthy money, that's what. DJ Latimer, have you been drinking? Don't you pretend ignorance, Martha. The publisher's representative was here a few minutes ago. His name's Oscar Waffles or something, and he's at the Travelers Hotel. He should make you very happy. He has an advanced royalty check for you. $5,000 when you sign the contract. 5,000 fiddle states. I won't stand in your way. That's why I'm leaving. Some day when you're old and lonely, I hope you'll give one little thought to the husband who loved you and who sacrificed himself, but fame might be yours. Look, you stay right here, DJ. I'll go phone Doc Honeycott. You're delirious. I am not delirious. I'm talking about your book, the book you wrote about me, the book you wrote and called the windbag. Martha, the man practically quoted from it. All about how I spoke to the ladies at the Anatopsis League and you said the old ninny. Huh? To think, tomorrow's our silver wedding anniversary. Wait a minute, DJ. I think I've got it now. I noticed the other day my diary for last year was missing. Sure as death and taxes, those two kids kept it when I let them read a page so as to get you untangled from your radio writing. I bet they gave it to those publishers. Makes no difference how they got it. They have it and they're going to publish it. They decidedly are not going to publish it. DJ, darling, you didn't think for a minute that I... What could I think? Why, you big ninny. Come here and put your arms around me. Well... Don't you know that our home and our love mean more to me than all the money in the world? It's a lot of... Money, yes. But that's my diary and nobody's going to publish it. Martha, my angel. But that day you did call me the old ninny. I did and I meant it. You're right. By George I am an old ninny, the biggest old ninny that ever lived. But from this moment on I'm a change man. Martha, if ever again I tell a stretcher I hope I stumble and break my glasses. Good morning, Mr. Bloodgood. Good morning, DJ. I'd like to cash a little check if you don't mind. That's what the bank's here for, DJ. Five ones be okay as usual. Five singles are okay. How many times since you had one of those continental broadcasting company checks, DJ? Yes, yes. I'm not writing for the radio anymore, Mr. Bloodgood. Took the picture to the well once too often? No, I'd hardly say that. Just don't have the time. I was getting to be so busy at my radio writing I was neglecting Martha. And all the money in your bank wouldn't be enough to tempt me to do that. No, sir. Martha's fine. Watch that broken tile, DJ. No! You dropped your glasses. I've been meaning to have Thurlow Gentry fix that tile for a quite spell now. Look and see if your glasses are broken. One of the lenses is? That's too bad. No, that's good. You wouldn't understand, Mr. Bloodgood. But this shows I'm improving. Yes, sir. It's a hard fight with a short stick. But I'm improving. There are a lot of things I'd like to say tonight about family life and family prayer. I believe they're expressed in these lines. Dear God, be mindful of the things that fit into a family's prayers. We ask you now to bless this house, the walls, the windows, and the stairs. Show us the way to bolt the door against the evil word or deed. Help us to fling our windows wide to human loneliness and need. Bring us the joyous mysteries of birth and babies at our knee. Teach us to find you all the days in temples of a family. And if it be your will to guide our fingers over thorns of pain, then strengthen us, dear God of love, to gather roses in the rain. And when the evening of life is done, open our eyes eternally to home that is heaven. Enjoy that it's full. This is the prayer of a family. This is Bing Crow to be saying good night, and God bless you. You have just heard Hal Perry, the great Gilder Sleeve as DJ, and Beatrice Benadera as Martha in the Wind Bank, a family theater play by Jack Mitchell, Max Tehr directed the orchestra, Mel Williamson directed, and John Ryder produced the program. Others who appeared in our play tonight were Gloria Holliday, Bill Bissell, Ed Rand, Betty Arnold, Collin Collins, and Brian Reed. Your host was Bing Crosby. Next week our family theater star will be Robert Young in the Tin Whistle. Your host will be Fred McMurray. This series of the family theater broadcast, portions of which were transcribed, is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this kind of program by the Mutual Broadcasting System which has responded to this need and by a friend of the New York Foundling Hospital which cares for homeless and motherless babies without distinction of race, creed, or color. Tony LaFranco speaking. This is the Mutual Broadcasting System.