This, Joe thought, might represent encouraging progress. Perhaps this was the moment, while his mother was in the mood to like something about radio, to drop a hint of his plans. “Some are pretty bad,” Mrs. Carlin added with conviction. “Well—some,” Joe said unhappily. Back in his room, after packing the costume, he tried to give his tie a Fancy Dan Carlin touch—a tweak here, a pinch there. The effect wouldn’t come. He came downstairs with the costume in a box. How did you arrange for a radio audition? June roses bloomed on a trellis in the next-door yard, and the sky was a June blue. All at once the courage and faith of young spring were in Joe Carlin’s blood, and problems and perplexities were miraculously gone. Why, no station could give you an audition unless it knew you wanted an audition. It was as simple as that. The corridors of the high school, brisk and alive during school hours, were shrouded to-day in Saturday darkness and gloom. Somewhere in the building a janitor’s mop knocked against a wall and filled the stillness with hollow echoes. Joe pulled at one of the great doors leading to the auditorium. Instantly light and clamor burst upon him. A girl shrieked, “There’s Joe.” They all had _Journals_. A boy on the stage did some steps and sang _sotto voce_. He paused with one leg back at an eccentric angle. “I see you made the headlines, Joe.” A very dark, very intense girl said rapturously: “Joe, you were perfect. Absolutely perfect. You ought to be an actor.” The boy on the stage stopped his dance. “You’d give all the stars something to worry about, Joe.” He sounded envious. Joe wondered what they’d say if he told them, casually, that he intended to be an actor. Soon he’d have to tell his father and his mother. All at once his throat was dry. Mr. Sears, teacher of English and faculty dramatic coach, checked his costume. Mr. Sears was engulfed in costumes. “Who hasn’t turned in a plumed hat—a red hat? Who—Will you please keep quiet?” The very dark, very intense girl rushed across the auditorium and rushed back with a red plumed hat. “Joe!” she cried. “You’re not going?” “Something to do,” said Joe. “Listen, feller,” called the boy on the stage. “We’re going to have a jam session.” “Can’t,” said Joe. They’d had a good time last June, ad-libbing and turning what had been a good show the night before into a travesty. But last year he hadn’t been thinking of radio. He pushed open the auditorium door and went through the darkened corridor. The boy on the stage snapped his fingers. “Mr. Joe Carlin,” he announced, “has gone upstage”—which was a way of saying that Joe Carlin’s head was starting to swell.