He went back to Tony’s office. So it had been front, the pathetically brave front of show business. Poor old Pop! A languidly contemptuous climber had thrust him aside as a relic, and this is what he came to after forty years of gallant trouping. This was show business. And making the rounds was show business, and washing out your only shirt and hanging it to dry overnight was show business, and Lucille Borden eating out her heart behind a Munson counter was show business. Radio small-time! Hunger and uncertainty! He sat at Tony’s desk and thought of the day Vic Wylie had told him he’d see things that would make him want to cry. The telephone rang fitfully and he made note of the calls on Tony’s desk pad. A clock whirred the five o’clock signal and Tony had not returned. Slowly, his lips stiff, Joe took a pen from his pocket, wrote a note, and left it on the desk: Dear Tony: Pop was fronting; he cracked after he left here. You’ve been swell to me, but this isn’t my game. I’ll be through next Saturday. I’m sorry. Joe He pushed back the chair and stood in thought beside the desk. As slowly as he had taken the pen from his pocket he reached for the telephone and called Vic Wylie’s office. “Will you give Vic a message for me, Miss Robb? We’ve been auditioning a cast and—I guess I can’t take it. Tell him Pop Bartell’s been dropped from the _Larry_ show. I’m throwing up my job.” Miss Robb was dumfounded. “Tony told us he was pleased with you....” “I know,” Joe said wearily. “Vic’ll understand.” Office buildings were emptying, and Royal Street was a packed, shuffling, slow-moving canyon. Joe moved along with the mass until he came to the Thomas Carlin store. It was almost the closing hour, and a lone customer waited for a clerk to wrap a purchase. The lights were on and facets of radiance gleamed from the polished glass of show-cases and the polished wood of shelves. To-day Joe saw the scene with a vision that had been cleaned and washed—its bright cleanliness, its subdued brilliance of display, its subtle breath of pride and courtesy and alertness. The faces of all the clerks—strange that he had never noticed them before: friendly faces that were not merely a friendly front. The lone customer left. “Hi, Joe.” The clerks grinned at him. “Hi, boys.” He grinned at them. “Some new books came in to-day, Joe,” Mr. Fairchild announced. “Not now,” said Joe. He added an explanation. “Something on my mind.” “No!” Mr. Fairchild prodded his ribs. “They’ll toss you out of the Jitterbug Union for that.” It wasn’t a brilliant gag. As a gag, it would have been scorned by any actor making the rounds. But it was good; it was homey. The store closed, and Joe walked with his father to the parking lot. The man pushed the key into the ignition lock and reached his foot for the starter button. “What is it, Joe? Trouble?” “Not exactly.” Joe was still thinking of Pop Bartell. “I’m through at the agency. I’d like to come into the store.”