Joe, pouring second cups of coffee, suddenly put the container down. “Who’s been writing those letters?” Archie Munn gave him a glance. “The boy’s fast on the catch.” “Amby Carver?” Nobody answered. There was a cold feeling in Joe’s insides that hot coffee couldn’t warm. He had met Ambrose Carver twice since coming over to Vic Wylie, and the agent had been effusive. But Joe knew now that the little, dapper man with the trick mustache had not forgiven him. Six weeks ago Amby had told him in effect that last season Sonny had been the only adequate juvenile—the programs had had to use him. “Next season,” Amby had boasted, “when Sonny auditions for a part, he’ll find Joe Carlin auditioning for the same part.” The stage was the same, but Amby had shifted the scenery. Joe Carlin, auditioning a part, would find Sonny Baker competing, reading the same part. Lucille held out her cup. “I always figured Amby as a sort of tramp.” That, Joe told himself, didn’t change matters. When a juvenile part came up, it could be played by only one actor. The agent had, undoubtedly, made some arrangement with Sonny. Certainly not a fifty-fifty arrangement. Sonny would be too wise; Sonny had been around. But whatever the arrangement might be, Amby had brought more trouble into an uncertain profession already loaded with plenty of trouble. Wylie popped out of the inner office as though he were on wires. “Kid! Tony Vaux’ll be here at three o’clock. Come in with him.” What did this mean—the _Sue Davis_ show at last? Tony Vaux was the Everts-Hall Agency, and the agency had the Munson account.... The hope in Joe died—the quick hope that the show might be sold before Sonny’s return. They couldn’t audition without Stella Joyce, and to-day Stella was probably playing a matinée forty miles away. Tony Vaux arrived boisterously. “Howdy, folks; howdy.” Joe went in with him. Wylie had a script ready. “That one passage, kid.” It was the _Sue Davis_ show. It was the speech over which Wylie had made him slave and toil. He disciplined his mind and forced himself to forget Sonny Baker and Amby. The show must go on! To-day it seemed that all the coaching the fiery, temperamental Vic Wylie had pounded into him flowed out in fulfilment. He felt a sense of mastery as he read the familiar lines: 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— To-day he was Dick Davis. He finished the speech and looked at Wylie. Wylie, dark circles under his eyes, spoke a single word to Tony Vaux. “Voice.” Tony spoke another word. “Character.” He reached for the telephone. “Will you get me my office, Miss Robb?” The call came through. Tony said to somebody: “What are my appointments for to-morrow?” The telephone gave out metallic sounds; the man put it down. “Think you could find your way over to the agency at noon to-morrow?”