Joe was still shocked. “You mean he doesn’t get much work?” “You’ve heard his voice. How many radio shows have old-man parts?” Compassion tied a knot in Joe’s throat. To come to this after forty years must be bitterly hard. But were they sure about the forty years? It didn’t seem possible. There wasn’t a gray hair on Pop’s head. Stella Joyce seemed to read his thoughts. “You’ve heard of hair dye, Joe? If Pop were in a bread line, his shoulders would be back. It’s all front.” “Everything’s front in show business,” Archie Munn said roughly. Lucille Borden’s voice was quiet. “A brush can keep one suit going a long time. An actor with one shirt washes it every night and hangs it to dry while he sleeps.” So that was how it was! Joe, his throat still tight, ate food that was tasteless. They went back to the office. Vic Wylie, impatient, awaited them. “Stella! You, kid! We have about an hour.” Hours were measured in this office in precious minutes. The door to the inner office closed. “Something new, Vic?” Stella Joyce asked. “The same _Davis_ show.” Wylie mauled among the papers on his desk. “Tony thinks Munson may be ripe for an audition. This is one of the scripts we’ll give him.” Joe tried to rise to the occasion, to feel the old thrill of rehearsing for Vic Wylie. But to-day the typed words were meaningless. He thought: “This is about the fifteenth time we’ve run through this script. Last time Mr. Wylie rubbed his hands and said he was satisfied.” He should have known better. Wylie was never satisfied. And gentle Pop Bartell would come in to-morrow.... Stella was reading. Joe thought in desperation: “I’ve got to forget Pop.” He’d have to pick up the story in a moment. Wylie’s outstretched finger wavered, waited for Stella’s last word, and then swung toward him. Joe, as Dick Davis, began to give the identical passage he had read for the producer his first day in this office: Dick: Mother, don’t shake your head at me like that. You must listen to me. I’m not trying to duck out of high school. I can get through at night. I can get college at night. Oh, I know fellows talk about night study and never get to it. But— “Stop!” Wylie’s flat palms pounded the desk. “I’m only human. I can stand only so much.” Stella gave attention to a button on her blouse. “I’ve coached you, kid. I sweated blood over you. Last week I said to myself: ‘The kid improves with every performance.’ And what do you do? What do you give me to-day? To-day you give me a performance that reeks.” The room on the ninth floor was so quiet they could all hear the purr of automobile traffic from the street. Abruptly Wylie turned around and pointed a clawing finger at Stella. The girl, giving no sign that she had witnessed a typical Wylie rehearsal storm, began again at the beginning. Joe tried to whip himself to pitch. His moment came: Dick: Mother, don’t shake your head at me like that. You must listen— Wylie’s face stopped him.