“A small stop,” said Tony. “If we have a show coming up, we become a big stop.” “That 4:15 spot—Dennis is cutting a platter.” “That’s off, Joe. He’s filling with studio music.” So Mander would not be called in. Why, Joe wondered as he walked toward the bus line, should the thought of Mander stay with him? He’d handed out money to show people before. And as for Pop, he was probably all wet on that. Hadn’t Tony said the show was clicking? Pop, reading with him, had sounded swell; Pop coming out of a speaker sounded corny. Perhaps there was no difference at all. Perhaps you merely heard the same performance from different angles. As the days passed, the range of Tony Vaux’s activities amazed him. The booming, jovial producer had a Thursday night quiz show, _Time To Remember_, a Sunday night musical-variety with guest stars, _Bush-League Larry_ three times a week, and the _Sue Davis_ five-a-week which had to be watched. And then there were agency clients who might go on the air if they could find the right show, and clients the agency thought should go on the air—and the spot announcements. This week there were seventy-eight spots. A girl sat before a radio in a small room off Tony’s office and checked a sheet as she tuned from station to station and caught the spots. “Worth, the House of Watches, brings you the correct time. It is now—” or it might be “Young’s, where your foot always meets a friendly shoe—” The skill with which these spots were shuffled, juggled, spaced through the day was almost uncanny. But it all took care, and thought, and time, which was another reason why Tony was limited on how much he could give a show. “How’s the job going?” Tom Carlin asked. “I like it,” said Joe. To-morrow they’d be playing platters for three different clients. Tony Vaux called it “trotting out the drama.” It was mad, this business of trotting out the drama—as mad and as unpredictable as a Vic Wylie rehearsal. Perhaps the client wanted comedy, and you played him every comedy platter you had. Then he decided he didn’t want comedy after all: how about romance and heart throb? Or perhaps you took out a forgotten turkey that had been gathering dust for two years, and the client became rapt. That didn’t mean the show was sold. For every show sold you had thirty you figured would sell, or hoped would sell, or slowly gave up hope of selling. Sometimes a client heard a platter and brought back officials of his company and kept bringing them back. Finally he’d go out shouting a rave, and you’d think the show was a sure sell for to-morrow morning—and that was the last you ever heard about it. And sometimes a client heard a platter, and liked it, and bought it. Actually bought it at once. That’s what happened with the soap manufacturer. He heard three platters and the third was _Poisoned Fangs_. Next day he returned with a delegation, and the platter was played four times. The following morning the contract was signed.