“It’s not glasses, Joe. He’s been wearing glasses before the mike since the show went on the air.” “What is it then?” “Sonny’s pulling his old trick of stealing the show. Pop follows script faithfully. Sonny reads a cue line and Pop starts to come in. But Sonny ad libs an extra line or two and Pop is left floundering. He never knows whether to come in or to wait. Years ago he’d have handled Sonny, but now he’s too old for that kind of rough-and-tumble. He’s cracking wide open. He’s lost. He’s shot.” Joe trembled. “Are you standing for that, Tony?” “I’m not Vic Wylie,” Tony said with bitter regret. “Vic answers to nobody but himself. If he wanted to give Sonny the hook, he’d give it to him. I’m a salaried employee. They give me a script; they expect a production. Pop’s a stooge in this show; Sonny’s the star. Suppose I go after Sonny the way Vic did? How long will I have a show? How long before they’ll have me on the carpet inside? Am I a producer? Then what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I produce? That’s the only question they ask. Why don’t I produce a show?” Stenographers and office clerks were on their way home; an orchestra of feet shuffled and tapped along the corridor leading to the elevators. “This can’t go on,” Joe cried in protest. “It isn’t going to go on. The He people caught me at FFOM; I had to get over there at once.” He opened a drawer of his desk and dropped in the paper he had been tapping against his hand. “Pop’s out,” he said roughly. Joe couldn’t speak. “Curt must write in a new character and thin Pop’s lines. Thinner and thinner. Friday week he’ll be out of the show. Finished. Call him in for two o’clock to-morrow.” A one-word hammer beat against Joe’s mind. Even small-time radio would have no place for a veteran who murdered a part. Finished! He dreaded to-morrow, but to-morrow came. He dreaded the passing of the morning hours, but they passed. Out in the city the noon whistles blew. After that, time was a racing despair. Youthfully slim and gallant, Pop Bartell was with them. “Good afternoon, Tony. Good afternoon, Joe. A beautiful day.” Tony did not try to beam. “Pop, I’m afraid I have bad news. The He people want the _Larry_ show jazzed. They think the action’s too slow and want more bang-bang.” The old trouper took the news without blinking. “Is that definite, Tony?” “I’m afraid so.” “And you think that’s bad news? Tony, my boy, you’re doing me a favor.” Pop coughed. “A very great favor.” Joe thought dismally: “Front. He knew this was coming.” The boy’s throat was in a vise. “Something else will turn up, Pop,” Tony said. “As a matter of fact, we have a platter—” Joe knew there wasn’t a platter in the cabinet that had a possible old-man part.