Chapter Eight offered a scene tense and climactic. But the action called

for four characters. Four were too many—a twenty-dollar cast. There was a scene in Chapter Two between the lead and the heavy. Was it strong enough? He walked the floor of his room, reading the passage aloud. Perhaps that run in Chapter Nine with three characters.... Sometimes his brain grew bewildered. He thought of Curt Lake sweating, and swearing, and knocking out a new script under pressure the day his throat had gone bad.

There were interruptions—lunch, the _Sue Davis_ broadcast, the family dinner in the evening. But even as he described Sonny Baker or told of Amby Carver’s rout, his mind was upstairs with the book. It would have to be the scene from Chapter Two.

He worked behind the closed door of his room and rattled a portable typewriter. He knew the mechanics of writing script, and the dialogue of the scene was before him on the printed pages. The first two sheets of script spun out of the typewriter. Then Joe ran into a passage in the book that analyzed the thought passing through a character’s mind. How did you get a character’s thoughts into a script? Radio had to be dialogue. He wrote, and tore up what he had written, and wrote again. He gave up in despair and fooled with a cross-word puzzle. He pushed that aside and went back to writing. Nothing would jell. He tried talking the scene aloud.

Kate Carlin cried: “Joe, are you all right?”

Sure, he was all right. He was swell. Curt Lake could have script-writing—he wanted no part of such a headache. Why couldn’t he find the words? It shouldn’t be so hard to express a thought. Just about two sentences. Inspiration came to him from whatever void it is that gives birth to inspiration. He went back to the typewriter.

Thursday night he finished the script in an exultation of authorship. Nine pages—that’s how long a Curt Lake script ran for a fifteen-minute show. Now he had to have a signature that would mark the start of every program, and he had to have an opening plug and a closing plug.

A rough idea for a distinctive signature came Friday morning. He put it down:

Voice: I am ink, and paper, and the thoughts of men.

Sound—Faint rumble of printing press

Voice: I am the printed word.

Sound (full mike)—Rumble of printing press

Voice: I am BOOKS.

Sound—Press rumble fades to—

Announcer: Thomas Carlin presents to-day’s book—

Absorbed, he worked on the plugs. He came to the close:

Life breathes in the printed word. Read books and live with life.

He told himself that he had something.

In imagination he heard an announcer’s voice speaking the lines into a mike. Boy, those lines were good. He had something there. The fascination of creation warmed him. This was show business; this was radio. But it was also something else he did not suspect.

It was _Thomas Carlin Presents_.

He read over what he had written. He read it over a second time and a frown pinched his forehead. The plugs didn’t seem to have all the zip he had thought was there. The feeling grew on him that he hadn’t quite caught the boat. Probably, with a little tinkering here and there.... He put the script in a small upper drawer of his desk where he kept razor blades, cuff links, tie clasps, odds and ends. He wouldn’t hand his father this show until he had licked it into shape. It had to be right. If the plugs proved too much for him, if he couldn’t make them right, he’d take them to Vic.

Instantly his thoughts were back with the _Sue Davis_ show. This was Friday, about time for Vic to give the word. On the chance that he might catch the producer he called his office.

“He’s not here, Joe,” Miss Robb said.

“Tell him my voice is all right, will you?”

“Why—yes. I’ll tell him, Joe.”

Joe thought: “The call ought to come to-morrow.”

There was no call the next day. And the telephone bell was silent all through the long, dragging hours of Sunday.

Premonition whispered, and the long knife of radio uncertainty touched him once more. Vic might be tied up. He knew this wasn’t so. The Monday show had to be rehearsed Sunday afternoon or Sunday night. When had Vic ever been so busy that a show went neglected? Perhaps he should have spent the week downtown and not have buried himself in a dramatization. But this wasn’t a case where he had to visit a station and keep himself fresh in a casting director’s memory. This was a Wylie show.

Monday morning the telephone rang. He was halfway down the stairs before his mother could call: “For you, Joe.”

Stella’s voice fluttered. “Lu’s show goes on at four. Are you picking it up?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Joe told her. His heart was lead.

“None of us will be able to hear it. Her show goes off fifteen minutes before we go on.”

“Leave it to me,” said Joe, and hung up.

“Was that Mr. Wylie’s office?” Kate Carlin asked.

“No; Stella Joyce. She asked me to listen to Lucille Borden.” He was silent. “I’ll pick it up at Vic’s.” Now that he was ready to resume his part, he couldn’t haunt Studio B. But Stella would want a report on Lucille. He’d have a legitimate reason for waiting until the cast came in from rehearsal. If Vic had anything to tell him, Vic could tell him then.

An afternoon romance serial was coming to the inner room when he reached Wylie’s office.

“That’s the station,” Miss Robb said. “Miss Borden’s show is next.”

Joe sat in Vic Wylie’s chair. Presently a mellow gong announced the station and the interval between programs. The click of Miss Robb’s typewriter ceased.

Lucille Borden’s voice, clipped, a little hard with a familiar hardness, went through him. The voice seemed strangely enriched with a new, deeper quality. It was impish, provocative, casually gay, and touched with unexpected moments of tears and of laughter. Joe found himself chuckling. Abruptly Lu put a yearning tenderness into a passage that caught his breath. And then his head was back and he was laughing as she gave drawling drollery to another line.

Lucille Borden’s premier was over. Joe knew she had scored a smash hit. Miss Robb dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I can’t help it, Joe. She was so wonderful.”

Joe had to clear his throat of emotion. “She was great.” He was thinking of the day he had hurried to a Munson hosiery counter to tell a defeated actress that her chance had come, and of the way her hands had gripped the counter. The ups and downs of show business!

At 4:30 he tuned in the _Sue Davis_ show. Any program coming on after Lucille’s triumph would have seemed flat; Lucille had fired him. He was nervous and restless, eager to return to the cast. He roamed out to Miss Robb’s desk.

“I’ll be glad,” he said, “to get back on the air.”

The girl, typing faster, did not answer.

“Vic may give me the word to-day,” he added.

Miss Robb slipped a letter from the carriage of the machine and carried a carbon to the file. The cabinet drawer held hundreds of yellow carbons. She placed the copy in its alphabetical compartment and did not speak.

Joe went back to Wylie’s chair. The inner room throbbed with memories—memories of his first days with Vic, of the hard grind of rehearsals, of the thrill of his first days on the air. When would he go back? Why hadn’t he played in to-day’s show?

Miss Robb, wearing her hat and coat, appeared in the doorway. “If you’re staying, Joe, I won’t put the catch on the door.”

“They’ll want to hear about Lucille,” said Joe.

The girl drew on her gloves. “Show business is tough,” she said impulsively, and was gone.

Daylight faded. Had she been trying to tell him something? Joe thought of the crowded carbons in the filing cabinet. Sonny Baker playing fast and loose with a script, little Amby Carver fussing impotently in Studio B—these happenings were more or less public. And he had thought them important. The real story might lie in letters locked away in the file. Letters that Wylie had received; letters he had written. Office secrets. But Miss Robb knew those secrets. He remembered her agitation the day he had met her at the restaurant, and to-day she had blurted out that show business was tough. Nobody had to tell him that. He knew it.

The inner room darkened and he turned on a light. Did Miss Robb know why he hadn’t gone back to the cast? Wylie had had knowledge since Friday that he had recovered.

The door from the hall opened and closed. Sonny Baker strolled into the inner room.

“Around again, Carlin?” he asked. His eyes reflected a sleepy, mocking amusement. He picked up a magazine and lolled on the settee.

Stella Joyce and Bert Farr came in together.

“Tell me everything,” Stella said eagerly.

Joe’s description of Lucille was a rhapsody. Stella wrote a telegram of congratulation. She read them the telegram and the list of signatures—Vic Wylie, Stella Joyce, Bert Farr, Joe Carlin.

“Miss Robb will want to be in that,” said Joe. “Why not Archie Munn? What’s become of him? I haven’t seen him in two weeks.”

Stella said slowly: “You knew he was offered a selling job? He took it. He had to. He couldn’t live on bit parts and a few funerals.”

“He’ll be back,” Joe predicted.

“I’m not so sure,” Stella said slowly. “There’s a limit.” She held the telegram and looked toward the settee. “Want your name on this, Sonny?”

One of Sonny’s eyebrows lifted blandly. “I didn’t hear the performance.”

“Why don’t you get wise to yourself?” Stella snapped. “Lu was always good.”

“Not bad,” Sonny murmured languidly, and returned to the magazine.

A door slammed, and Vic Wylie was upon them. The producer’s hat was dented, his top-coat collar was half up and half down, the brief-case, closed by a single strap and gaping at one end, swung past his knee. He dumped the brief-case on the desk.

“You gave me a lousy show to-day,” he snarled at the cast. “Dish-water! Hello, kid. How was she?”

“I never heard anything better,” said Joe. He spoke slowly and distinctly so that Wylie could get the full, strong timbre of his voice. Of course, Vic couldn’t very well talk up in front of Sonny. But he could say: “Come out here a minute, kid,” and tell him where he stood.

Wylie’s tired face cracked into a smile. “A grand gal, Lu; one of the best. Give her a part that fits her and she’s tops. What did she do with the comedy shots?”

“She put them over beautifully.”

“I always figured she’d be tops on smooth comedy.” Wylie opened the brief-case. “Let’s get going.” He distributed to-morrow’s show—a script to Stella, a script to Bert, a script to Sonny....

Joe walked out.

He was bitter. Archie Munn had advised him in the early days to stick to Vic, had said that Vic took care of his people. Well, he’d called himself one of Vic Wylie’s people. He’d auditioned the _Sue Davis_ show; he’d originated the Dick Davis role. Vic had told him he was still in the show. He pushed through the crowd standing in the street outside FKIP and was deaf to the news broadcast coming from the speaker. Had Wylie kept him in Studio B as a piece of scenery, a prop threat to Sonny Baker that Sonny had better be good? Was that what Miss Robb knew and was afraid she might reveal? He said in growing bitterness: “Show business!”

He ate a belated, warmed-over dinner in the Carlin kitchen. His father sat across the table.

“See Wylie to-day, Joe?”

Joe nodded. “I don’t know any more than I did yesterday. Sonny’s playing the show to-morrow.”

“Have you any plans?”

“No, sir.” But Joe did have plans. He’d lay siege to casting directors’ offices until he found a part. Did Vic think radio began and ended in the office of Vic Wylie Productions? When Vic wanted him again, Vic could send for him.

Next day Joe Carlin once more started to make the rounds.

He told himself: “I’ve been in a successful show; they know me now.” But making the rounds didn’t have the hopeful outlook it had worn last night. The bread-and-butter hunt depressed him. He had been all through this before; he was back where he had started.

Now that he was at liberty, no actor, beginning to look a little seedy, led him into a quiet nook to negotiate a small loan. None of the show people mentioned the _Sue Davis_ show. Nothing else had changed. There was the same sharp anxiety that showed itself only in off-guard moments, the same glib talk of fat parts about to turn up, the same business of having a bright gag ready for casting directors, the same sham front that fooled nobody. Lucille Borden had carried a front while living on coffee and rolls. But Stella Joyce had said there was a limit.

He made the rounds thinking about Archie Munn, who had at last reached his limit. He made the rounds from FKIP to FFOM to FWWO. Casting directors were brightly glib. “Hello, Carlin; how are you?” or “Hello, Joe; how’s the boy?” Nothing more; nothing about parts. Casting directors’ routine hadn’t changed, either. You might make the rounds for weeks and for months. Playing a part in a successful show was something that had happened yesterday. Hadn’t Archie played in successful shows?

Friday added another to the growing list of fruitless days. Gossip was a thread running through the stations. Practically all the September programs were renewing their radio time, and that meant few new shows and few new parts. Joe, coming out of FFOM, met Pop Bartell. Pop was a gilded lily—new suit, new coat, new hat, new shoes. Show business always dresses when it is in the money.

“Joe,” the veteran announced impressively, “I owe you two dollars, and an apology for not having discharged my obligation earlier, and a round of dinners.” He made the paying of the debt a ceremony. “Are you following Lucille Borden? Join me in a cup of coffee. I am familiar with a coffee house that does very little business at this hour. We can pick it up there. I highly recommend the cheese cake.”

The raftered ceiling of the coffee house was dark and smoky, the paneled walls were lined with sporting prints, the tables were bare wood, scarred and grooved. In the dim light thrown by the Dutch lamps Pop Bartell seemed to have torn ten years from what the world calls age.

Lucille’s performance held Joe spellbound.

“Brilliant,” Pop said softly, “truly brilliant. A remarkable characterization. I salute her. Have you heard my show, Joe?”

Joe flushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bartell.”

“I understand.” A hand patted the boy’s shoulder. “From the experiences of thirty years of wisdom, permit me to cull you wisdom. When the bad breaks come, never lose your front.”

“You never lost yours, Mr. Bartell.”

“Had I lost that, Joe,” the old man said gravely, “I’d have lost everything. Are you remaining for the _Sue Davis_ show?” Slim and straight, he strode toward the street. And in that moment Joe Carlin knew why front, for all its hollowness and sham, meant so much to show people. It was the hard stiffener when an actor’s precarious world was shaken; it was sanctuary and armor.

He ordered more coffee. “Will you please get FKIP?”

To-day the _Sue Davis_ show rose to tense drama. The money Dick Davis brought home after selling his stamps was almost gone; without warning, tight-fisted Israel Tice offered $500 more for the widow’s property than he had offered before. Sue was weary of fighting a battle that seemed endless. Why not sell, she asked her son, and be done with heartache? Why not find peace? Dick wanted to hold the property, but he saw how the struggle was aging his mother and consented. She was to agree to the terms when Tice stopped in that evening. Dick, who did not want to be present at the meeting, went off into the mountains to search for wild grapes. He came upon a picnic party; departing, they left behind a newspaper published that morning at the State capital. The paper carried the story of a new super-highway and a map. The map showed the highway following the line of the unimproved county road that passed his mother’s home. Their dream of a tea-room would be realized. But Tice must have seen the story that morning; Tice knew what the mountain might not know until to-morrow. Dick had to get home before his mother signed the agreement to sell. Running down the mountainside, crashing through thickets, he reached the house as she lifted the pen. He stuck the newspaper under Israel Tice’s nose, and a thwarted skinflint departed.

It was hokum. Joe knew it for hokum. But it was good hokum, and it had built up a terrific suspense. The kind of suspense a Curt Lake script could give a show. Or had it been Sonny Baker’s acting?

Next day Joe walked Royal Street. Saturday was a poor day to make the rounds, but when you were desperate for a part every day counted. FKIP’s John Dennis sat in a deserted casting office staring at the ceiling.

“Come in, Joe. You’re just the man I’ve been thinking about. If I call you in to audition a show that will go on at 4:15, will you be available?”

Joe understood. Dennis wanted to know if he was out of the _Sue Davis_ program that went on at 4:30.

“What show?” he asked.

“Were reviving _Mr. America_. There’s a new part being written in that should fit you like a glove. We put the show on last March and had three sponsor nibbles before it went off in June. This time we think we’ll sell it.”

Joe remembered _Mr. America_. A five-a-week sustaining. Front demanded that he tell Gillis he was uncertain, that he might decide not to return to the _Sue Davis_ cast. Dennis would probably know he was lying, but that was the way front was played. He cast front aside.

“I don’t know, Mr. Dennis. Right this minute, I’m in the dark. I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll have to know by Wednesday. Unless there’s a switch, we’ll start to audition Thursday and cut the platter Saturday.”

“I’ll know definitely by Wednesday,” said Joe. He had vowed Vic would have to send for him. All that was changed. He’d have to go to Vic for a showdown.

Waiting for the elevator, unconsciously listening to an FKIP loudspeaker, Joe felt that the future held a grim, mirthless humor. If he went on the _Mr. America_ program, he’d still be in radio. He’d still be on a five-a-week. Both shows would come out of the same station, fifteen minutes apart. But the _Sue Davis_ sponsored show had been paying him twenty-five dollars a week, while the unsponsored _Mr. America_ would pay him only in experience. Show business!

John Dennis’ secretary came running along the corridor. “Mr. Carlin! I wasn’t sure I could catch you. Mr. Wylie’s office called. You’re wanted over there.”

Vic Wylie had sent for him at last!

“Will you phone back and tell them I’ll be there within an hour?” He’d been waiting for more than a week. Let Vic wait an hour.

He ate a sandwich at Munson’s, killed time, and finally walked into Vic Wylie Productions.

“I expect Mr. Wylie back in a few minutes,” Miss Robb said.

So he hadn’t kept Wylie waiting. The inner room still held memories. Memories softened him. Why wrap himself in cold aloofness and let Vic see he was sore? Vic would tell him to come back to the cast for the Monday show and he’d go on from there, forgetting how tough the last week had been, giving everything he had.

Wylie arrived without the usual accompaniment of fury and bustle. He closed the door and placed the brief-case upon the desk with what, for him, might pass for gentleness. He went around to his chair and, for a moment, seemed to give himself up to contemplation of some thought far away. He was gaunt and disheveled, apparently a little more tired than usual. He hadn’t shaved.

“Kid,” he said heavily, “I’m not up to the light touch. I can’t spar around with this. I’ve got to give it to you fast and quick. You’re out.”

The blood drained out of Joe. Never again to play Dick Davis.... He found his voice. “I’m out for good?”

“That’s the ticket.”

“Why?” This was some sort of wild dream or some mad joke. Only—Vic didn’t joke about things like this.

“You heard yesterday’s show? Yesterday wrote the answer. I like you—”

Joe’s lips moved. “You can skip that.”

“All right; you shouldn’t have to be told. I’ve been holding off. Amby Carver’s been telling things to Munson, Munson’s been riding Everts-Hall, Everts-Hall’s been putting pressure on me. I got it three ways; some of it was downstage, some from the prompter’s book, and some from the wings. I didn’t want Sonny unless he became a must. If he starts out again to put himself up in lights, he can ruin the show. If he gets under my skin and I blow my top, I ruin the show. I told you once I don’t run a friendship club. I might have an idea that cutting your throat would be tops as a way to enjoy an afternoon, but if you give me a show, I’ll toss the knife out the window. Yesterday Sonny gave me a show. He’s a must.”

“He had a script.”

“A stage has scenery, but it’s only an empty stage until the scenery’s set.”

Disappointment made Joe hoarse. “What did Sonny Baker do that I couldn’t have done with the same script?”

“Kid,” Wylie said with weary regret, “he can act.”

Joe Carlin was stiff and numb with shock. Was Wylie telling him at this late date that he was a flop? After auditioning him for weeks, fighting for him when Mrs. Munson wanted the Dick Davis part for a nephew, giving him the part when the show finally went on the air? Suddenly he was white with anger. Wylie had either fooled him at the beginning or was fooling him now. Either way, he had been betrayed.

“You told me I was tops.”

The producer’s hands made a weary sign. “I expected you to throw that at me, kid. I had a show coming up; I wanted a Dick Davis; I knew exactly how Dick Davis should sound. I couldn’t find a Dick Davis. Then I heard you auditioning at FKIP. You were my Dick Davis. For that part, your voice made you tops. You were tops until Sonny came along. When Mr. John Public turns on the radio all he gets is voices. Voices must build up the scene, the characters, the atmosphere in his imagination. The show doesn’t have the help of stage settings, lights, costumes, and make-up. You’ve got a million dollar radio voice, but that lets you out. You can’t do much with it. You feel, but you can’t give. It took me weeks to get you to give me one word, ‘Mother,’ the way I wanted it.”

Joe’s breath made a sound in his throat.

“You’re good, kid, but you’re not good enough. There’ll always be somebody better. That’s the curse of small-time radio. Thousands of kids working in radio all over the country, wild with ambition and dreaming of the pot of gold. They’re good, but not good enough. You’ve got to be better than good. Archie Munn was good; he’s out of radio. Stella’s good; she’s working as a part-time waitress. Lucille Borden was good, and she was selling stockings when she got the breaks. A part came up made to order for her just when she auditioned, or she’d still be selling stockings. Where will you be ten years from now? Exactly where you are to-day. You know small-time radio; do you want that all your life? Your voice gets you a couple of fat parts one season, and next season you get bits. Year after year you make the rounds. By and by John Public gets tired of your voice, or a new voice comes along. Then where are you? Television’s only around the corner. John Public’s going to see the setting, the action, and characters in costume; radio actors will really have to act. What will you do then? If you had dynamite on the ball I’d tell you to stick it out if you starved. You haven’t got it, kid, and there’s no percentage in starving for what you haven’t got. I knew a long time ago you didn’t have the stuff, but you were the best Dick Davis I could get. I told you when Mrs. Munson’s nephew auditioned you’d have been out had he been hot. I’ve never lied to you, kid. If you’d played forty weeks in the _Sue Davis_ show you’d be hooked for life. The bug would bite so deeply there’d be no cure. But you were only on the air a few weeks—that shouldn’t be fatal. You can make your exit while there’s still time.”

The indictment struck Joe with a paralyzing shock. He didn’t want to believe. He couldn’t believe that this was true.

“I’m not getting out, Vic. I’m writing New York for an audition.”

The producer brooded. “That’s up to you.”

“A producer told Ezra Stone—”

“I know. A producer told him to go home and forget acting. That gets a big play. But you don’t hear a word about the hundreds of times producers tell the same thing to kids and are right. It’s a waste of time to try to give the low-down to a stage-struck kid. Doesn’t he want to act? He doesn’t know the difference between wanting to act and being able to act.” The producer’s hand went up and ran through his hair; the arms fell heavily. “Kid, what have I got to say to make you believe me?” The sunken eyes burned.

Joe felt the first thin edge of doubt. He fought it off wildly. “Why should you care what I believe?”

“Kid, do you have to ask that?”

A lump, quick and unbidden, formed in the boy’s throat. “I—I know you think....”

“Think?” Vic Wylie cried harshly. “I don’t have to think about show business; I know. Tough? There isn’t any game in the world that’s tougher. I’ve seen it around the country: stage-struck kids working in crummy night clubs or picking up a few dollars from movie houses that run Saturday vaudeville. I’ve seen it at Hollywood: movie-crazy kids storming the Central Casting Bureau because they’ve won a two-bit beauty contest or have a straight nose. But at least, if you work at Hollywood, you get paid. There’s no such thing at Hollywood as a sustaining movie. Hollywood doesn’t fatten itself on gratis talent. Radio’s just a little tougher than any other part of show business. Don’t you know it? Don’t you use your eyes?”

Joe thought of bread-and-butter hunters making the rounds.

Wylie’s sunken cheeks were pale with intensity. “What do you think you’re going to do in New York—show me up for a mug? I’ll tell you what’ll happen in New York, kid. Maybe you’ll audition and a producer’ll say: ‘Ah, a voice of great promise.’ Maybe you’ll go back for a committee audition. Maybe the committee hears a voice of great promise. Then what? Do you think you’ll snatch a part like picking an oyster from a shell? You’ll be competing with the people who are tops. Who are you? What’ve you done? You become a card—a Joe Carlin card. You’ll go into a talent file. Do you know how many cards are in the N.B.C. file at WEAF? The last time I heard, more than two thousand. Many of them are troupers with years of stage experience, many of them have played big-time radio. When a producer casts a show, those are the people he picks. He knows what they’ll give him. Maybe a show comes up and the producer can’t get the people he wants; they’re tied up in other shows. Then he goes to the file. Maybe he’s forgotten Joe Carlin—some new cards go into that file every month. It’s a grab-bag. Figure the chances of the Joe Carlin card coming out. If you had great talent I’d tell you to stay with it if you were down to your last pair of socks, if you were mooching your meals and panhandling your friends. I’d help you. Great talent is rare. Kid, what makes you think you’ve got it?”

Looking at Wylie, intense and drawn, listening to his impassioned voice, Joe had to believe. Wylie had spent far more time on him than on any other member of the cast. That now became significant. Memory leaped at him with other scenes, all significant. Wylie talking to Tony Vaux about his voice—only about his voice. Wylie almost frantic because he couldn’t put something into the word “Mother” that the producer wanted put there. Wylie slaving over him through the long evening rehearsals. But he had dreamed a dream, and a dream always dies hard.

“Vic, why did you wait so long to tell me this?”

“Kid, I was on a spot. It didn’t take me long to learn you didn’t have the spark. You’d never lay them in the aisles. What could I do, toss you out? You were the best I could get for Dick Davis. Suppose you had no special training for a business job? Suppose you couldn’t land a job? Suppose radio was your only chance of nailing a dollar? Yesterday I began to check on you. You never told me anything about yourself. How was I to know your father owned that Carlin store on Royal Street? What’s the matter, doesn’t he want you there?”

“He’d be glad to have me there.”

“Then get wise. That’s where you belong.”

Sometimes, Joe thought wanly, it was hard to be wise. The easy companionship of show people, light-hearted despite its anxiety, the feeling that came over him every time he walked into a station, the hush that settled over a studio as the clock in the control-room crept toward the opening, the thrill as the show went on the air! He couldn’t give up all that.

“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.”

Worming through Royal Street he was feverish with the prospect of new horizons. A whole stage to play with. You built shows, molding them and shaping them. The picture grew in his mind, expanded in his excitement. If he was some day to be a full-fledged producer, it was time he finished his first show. It would be something to look back upon, a milestone. All that the plugs needed was more direct strength, the right touch. He ought to finish the script to-night. To-morrow he’d be able to show it to his father.

Kate Carlin called from the kitchen. “Aren’t you home early?”

“I smelled apple pie,” Joe said. He watched her take the brown, fragrant pies from the oven. “I’m through with acting.”

She almost dropped a pie. “Joe!”

“It’s all right. You and Dad never really liked the idea of my acting, anyway. I’m going into production. I start Monday with the Everts-Hall Agency.”

She followed him to the stairs. “Why, Joe?”

“Vic Wylie advised it. I was out of the _Sue Davis_ show. He told me I was good, but that there’d always be somebody better. He said I’d never make big time. It was hard to take at first, but, well, Vic makes you believe him. You know he’s shooting straight.”

He went at once to the bureau. He’d wade into those plugs.... He took the script from the drawer, and hard concentration gathered between his eyes. He knew exactly how he had left the script and now the pages were turned about, reversed. The frown deepened.

“Mother, were you looking over some papers in my bureau?”

“I don’t recall any papers. What drawer were they in?”

“The small top drawer on the right.”

“The only drawer I opened was the large middle one. I put away your laun—Oh! I remember, Joe. Dad ran out of razor blades and went to your room for a fresh blade.”

“When was that?”

“Tuesday or Wednesday. Are some papers missing?”

“No,” said Joe, swallowing. “They’re here.”

Tuesday or Wednesday—three or four days ago. This wasn’t a finished script. It took a professional script-writer like Curt Lake to do a finished script. This show was a sample, an indication of what could be done. And his father hadn’t thought the script worth discussing.

All the fine fire of eagerness went out of him. Another egg. First he’d laid an acting egg and now a script egg. He tossed the script back among the razor blades and tie clasps, and closed the drawer.