Joe thought, with the knot back in his throat, “Oh, but they’re brave!” That was what hit him hardest—their unquenchable optimism, their unbreakable hope. To-morrow they might crash the big time. It was always to-morrow. Hadn’t it taken Frank Bacon thirty years to reach Broadway with _Lightnin’_? Pop Bartell had been the first to tell him about Frank Bacon; remembering the day, he could also remember the wistfulness, the yearning in Pop’s eyes. Brave, gallant people who, forever living in uncertainty and doubt, could nevertheless put on a mask each day and live out each day with a smile. Panic touched Joe Carlin. He didn’t want to live like that. The gallant heart of show people, yes; but not the constant uncertainty. He wanted the feeling of security, if there was such a miracle as security in radio. He couldn’t go on forever talking of a mythical to-morrow and never having an actual to-day. He couldn’t go on loafing in an outer office and having his father leave money each week on his bedroom dresser. He couldn’t let somebody else support him. Then what was he doing all day, every day, at Vic Wylie’s? There were a few other independent producers, there were radio stations, there were advertising agencies with accounts that bought shows and radio time. Wasn’t it common sense to make the rounds? Why didn’t all those gay, idle show people make the rounds? He asked Archie Munn. “You don’t make a dash for the 5:30 train at 4:30,” Archie told him. “Radio’s dead until the end of August. If something breaks suddenly, the producers know where to find the people they want.” “How many producers know me?” Joe asked, anxious. Archie Munn said: “Vic takes care of his people. Leave it to Vic.” Joe was lulled, but after that the shadow of uncertainty was never very far away. A milk company signed one of the six shows, and the inner office knew the fever of refining one production. Joe fretted idly in the outer room, went out to the thirty-five-cent restaurant with Arch, Lucille, and Stella, and fretted away the hours of the afternoon. Wylie now had time for only the one signed show. Stella Joyce’s fingers, lately, always had to be nervously busy with something. “I thought Tony said he had Munson about ready for a _Sue Davis_ audition.” Joe caught the thin thread of strain in her voice. Lucille Borden stood up suddenly. “You had a ten-trip ticket to New York, Archie. Any of it left?” “Three rides.” “I had a letter this morning. N.B.C. wants me in for an audition to-morrow.” Archie Munn took the ticket from his pocket. “Lucky gal,” he said. Lucille said: “Perhaps.” Joe weighed a tone, an almost imperceptible breathlessness.