Something that was part of this house worked its spell. His jagged nerves relaxed and anger died in him. He began to see his father’s point of view. He hadn’t been absolutely denied the store; it was simply that his father questioned the wisdom of having him come in now. After all, there was a lot to what his father had said. He _had_ made the store a third choice. He must look like an irresponsible madcap, a harum-scarum who didn’t know his own mind. Well, he’d have to prove himself. He could do that. He’d find an outside job and make good at it. Then, after a year or two ... but a year or two seemed so long. He opened the _Journal_ and studied the _Help Wanted_ columns. Christmas was approaching and all the large stores along Royal Street were clamoring for packers, sales people, delivery men, and cashiers. He could probably get a seasonal job at half a dozen places; certainly, if you rolled up your sleeves and pitched in, temporary employment might become permanent employment. But he couldn’t, he thought with a fresh pang, get a job with his own father. There was a tap on the door and Tom Carlin walked in. “Joe, Mother thinks I may have been hasty. Her reactions are usually right. You’ve heard what I have to say, but I haven’t heard your side. Do you mind telling me why you were fired?” Joe stared. “Fired? I wasn’t fired. What gave you that idea? I quit.” The man reached for a chair, took a pipe from his pocket, and sat down slowly. “Why did you quit?” Joe tried to tell him. The story used up a great many words, and he felt that he was telling it badly. “I might have made a good producer. Vic thought I would and Tony told Vic I was doing well. But if I became a producer I’d always be meeting the sordid side of show business. All I’d see would be men and women wearing an artificial front. They’d make me a big stop when I had a show coming up. They’d stay awake nights planning to catch my attention as Mander caught Tony’s. They’d audition and try to hide how much a part meant to them. I don’t mean there isn’t struggle and uncertainty in every other line, but—oh, show business is different. I’d know too much about small time. I’d see too much: little corners of shabbiness, things that were mean and grubby, fine people trying to hide worry and apprehension behind a front. You get so you hate a front. I’d know they were getting hard knocks to-day and would get the same hard knocks to-morrow. I’d know that probably only one in a thousand would ever make the big time, just as I couldn’t make it and for the same reason. They’re good, but not good enough. Good enough for small time, and sustaining shows that pay no salaries, but only good enough for that. It got under my skin and did something to me. I used to turn on a radio, and listen to a show, and think it was all glamorous; there’s very little glamour in show business when you get behind the scenes. You see too many of the wounds.” Tom Carlin filled his pipe.