Tony beamed; Tony’s cigar moved from one side of his mouth to the other. “A nice reading,” he said genially. “It’s your part, Frank.” The dew was gone from Mander’s forehead. “How about a twenty-five dollar advance, Tony? I’m in to my landlady for six weeks. The old girl’s getting peeved.” Tony chewed the cigar. “The office is starting to get tough on advances. Can’t you tell her you’re working?” “I’m afraid,” Mander said lightly, “she’s heard that one before.” Tony wrote an order on the cashier. Mander, passing out, was a new man. Pop Bartell had been a new man on two borrowed dollars. One by one actors and actresses came in to read. Joe found this harder to bear than the parade of show people making the rounds. On the rounds they accepted the possibility of long, idle periods, but now everything was crystallized into a single effort. A part in a sponsored show that paid real money was won or lost in a single hour, perhaps in the reading of a single line. They laughed and jested, but the smiles trembled under the heightened tension of nervousness and strain. Joe found escape in the little room of spot announcements. The girl tuned a station, checked her list, and tuned another station. “I’d love to be out there listening, Joe.” “I guess I’ve gone sour,” said Joe. He hadn’t meant to say that. He was startled. The afternoon brought quiet. Tony was at FFOM and the last of the _Poisoned Fangs_ auditions would be held to-morrow. It seemed to Joe that it was weeks since he had heard _Bush-League Larry_. With the office echoing with laughter and gag the radio had not been touched. He tuned in FFOM and waited for the show to come on. His mind wandered. Archie Munn and Lucille Borden. He never heard Lu’s show any more. Amby Carver and Sonny Baker. He hadn’t seen Sonny since the afternoon of Lu’s premier. Tony rehearsed at the studio and paid off at the studio; the cast never came to the office. Amby had fawned, but Sonny would have remained unchanged. Sonny would always be the whole world to Sonny. Vic Wylie telling him he couldn’t act.... He stiffened. _Bush-League Larry_ was on. Good Lord, could that be Pop Bartell? It was Pop. But this was a Pop who murdered lines, who fumbled, who didn’t seem to know what to say or how to say it. Character? There was no character. Any ham could have read the part better. Joe shuddered and turned a knob quickly. The office was silent. What, he wondered bleakly, had become of the grand old trouper who needed only a word of suggestion to tinge a part with a new color and new harmonies? Tony Vaux came back from FFOM an hour past his usual time. To-day no booming greeting to the girl at the reception-desk announced his arrival. “I thought you’d be gone, Joe.” He took some papers from his pocket and, preoccupied, tapped them against the other hand. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Joe said. “I heard the show—part of it. Why don’t you make Pop wear glasses?”