Mr. Carver became avid. “Is his letter here? What’s he ever done? Let me get a line on him.” He read Joe’s letter rapidly. The program director touched the button. “Thank you, Mr. Carlin.” That was all. The girl came out of the little room of fate and led Joe to the door. A middle-aged man now sat on the wooden bench. The girl said: “Mr. Westfall? This way please.” The door of Studio K closed. Joe Carlin laid the three books on the wooden bench and mopped his face. He was tired and weary, discouraged and whipped. You read a rôle, and eyes glared at you from the control-room, and you didn’t have the slightest idea whether you were good, bad or indifferent. Nobody bothered to tell you. “Thank you, Mr. Carlin.” They might just as well tell you to get out and let it go at that. Get out and let the next victim come in. Didn’t they have any heart in radio? Didn’t they know what an audition meant—the worry, the nervous, sick all-goneness, the strain? Didn’t radio care? The door of Studio K opened with a hasty rattle of the knob. “Mr. Carlin.” Joe swung about. The man with the shadow of black mustache shook hands warmly. “I was afraid you’d get away before I got out here. Congratulations. I wasn’t surprised and John Dennis shouldn’t have been, either. That was the stout man—director of programs. Great friend of mine, Dennis. I told him you’d wow them.” Joe knew an unbelievable, an incredible warmth. “You mean I was good?” “Ambrose Carver don’t call them wrong. Last week I saw you at Northend High in—in—” Mr. Carver snapped annoyed fingers. Why couldn’t he remember that letter? Joe said eagerly: “_The Prince Laughs Last_.” “When you see shows, shows, shows, titles get away from you,” Amby Carver said ruefully. A nice touch, he assured himself; just matter-of-fact enough. “I spotted you before the first-act curtain.” Joe’s lips parted. “I came to tell Dennis to call you in for an audition and there was your letter on his desk. I told him here was a kid he wasn’t going to keep waiting; it had to be now. Well, wasn’t it? Weren’t you in there to-day? That’s record speed for an audition. Ambrose Carver’s telling you.” Yes, Joe thought, he’d been in Studio K to-day—and all at once he was living the bleakness of his discouraged walk back to the wooden bench. “Did Mr. Dennis like me?” “He thinks you’re tops.” “He didn’t say so.” “You don’t know radio. They never say so. If they like you, some day you may get a call. If they think you smell, you’re never sent for. Get the picture?” Joe didn’t.