Laughter, Joe thought bitterly, was tragedy, a fake. The closer they came to the hour the call would go out to audition, the more gaily they’d laugh, the more spectacularly they’d wear a front of cheerful vivacity. Tony had to be out for an hour in the afternoon, and he met them alone. His smile, answering theirs, became fixed, wooden. When Tony came back he disappeared into the little room where a girl checked spot announcements. “They seem to be awfully happy,” the girl said enviously. “They seem to be,” Joe agreed. He knew better. And suddenly he knew why Mander, borrowing fifty cents, had given him a wrench, and why making the rounds after he was out of _Sue Davis_ had depressed him. All the glamour was worn thin, and now the tarnish showed. He couldn’t take it. Not this way. Not through the peep-hole on show business that was called a producer’s office. He knew why that was, too. Making the rounds, he had had only fleeting glimpses. He had been a part of the tide, meeting it as it passed and meeting it in fragments. But here the whole tide came at him at once and overwhelmed him. The laughter and the gay talk became vapor. All he could see was the feverishness of hope, the sharp thorns of anxiety and uncertainty. And they were such fine people, so buoyant and so brave on so little. Small-time radio! Dreaming a dream that could never come true. Or, if it did come true, it would be for only a few. “Joe,” Tony boomed. He had to go out. “The blue slip,” said Tony, and handed him script. The blue slip was the Everts-Hall rejection slip. Mander sauntered in, his hat on the back of his head and his shoulders swaying. “Tony, wait until you get this. I’m in a restaurant for a spot of lunch and there’s an I Am boy at the next table. I’ll give him to you.” Without make-up or props, Mander gave an impersonation of a pop-off. He made it a cameo, a sharply-etched portrait of a living character. He was good. Tony looked at him thoughtfully. Joe thought: “He must have rehearsed that for hours.” The bread-and-butter hunt! Next day was _Bush-League Larry_ day. With Tony producing the show at FFOM, Joe again had to meet the gay crowd alone. He tried to rise to it, to meet them smile for smile. He knew some stories, too. But Tony wasn’t there, and the fever of anxiety made them restless. They didn’t stay long. “Tell Tony I was in, Joe, will you?” Joe had a stock reply. “Too bad you can’t wait.” He knew they wouldn’t wait and spend unprofitable time with him. He wasn’t Tony; he wasn’t casting this show. He saw the last of the crowd leave and felt tired, weary. “All gone?” Tony boomed on his arrival. “I thought they’d still be waiting. What a day! Thank God we don’t have a new show come up every month.” He took a cigar from his pocket and studied the boy. “You don’t like it, Joe, do you?” “No,” said Joe.