He left with Stella. When would they know? Mingling with the listeners, they passed along the glass-walled corridor. Men and women stared at them curiously. The ball game was still on. They got a part of the ninth inning in the elevator. Out in Royal Street they heard the last play of the game. “Well?” Joe demanded. Stella’s head made a quick, bird-like movement. “We gave them a show.” They waited. Vic Wylie might come out in a few minutes and tell them something. But when the producer appeared, he was with Munson, Mrs. Munson, and Tony Vaux. All four entered a taxi. Wylie appeared to be still engrossed in argument. “There it goes,” said Stella. “Yes or no. We have a job or we haven’t.” Archie Munn and Lucille Borden came out of the FKIP building. Archie, seeing them, made a writing motion in the air with his right hand. “Munson’s signing the show,” Stella cried. “I caught Vic for a moment,” Archie reported. “He said the audition was a honey. Munson fell hard.” “You’re sure?” Joe demanded. “They’ve gone over to the Everts-Hall Agency to put through the contract.” Then, Joe decided, it was true. Hadn’t he watched the taxi leave? “Look!” he said, happily reckless. “I have four dollars.” “Infant,” Lucille drawled, “you don’t know how much wealth four dollars is until you need four dollars. Hold on to it.” “I’m buying the dinners. We celebrate. Do you know where we can get a good seventy-five-cent dinner, Arch?” “Mr. Carlin,” Archie’s deep voice pronounced gravely, “I know them all, from swanky hotel dining-rooms down to the joints where you eat for a dime.” Oh, but they were gay. Gay as only show people can be gay when luck is running. Archie brought them to a table for four in an Italian basement restaurant. The food was good. But the talk, Joe thought, was better. Archie, Stella, and Lucille were all at their best. There was a bright play of drollery and a great deal of laughter. This, too, was show business. A happy Joe Carlin, still chuckling over some of Archie’s quips, rode out to Northend. To-morrow Ambrose Carver might steer Sonny Baker into the He show, but the Munson show was his. Once, the time FKIP had cut the _I Want Work_ platter, he had hurried home with a false alarm. What he would have to tell his folks to-night would be real. Inside the house the telephone rang as he reached the porch. He heard his mother’s voice: “I’m sorry; he’s not here now. If you’ll leave your num—Just a moment. I think I hear him on the porch. Joe!” “Who is it?” Joe called. His mother met him in the hall. “That Carver person.” Joe thought: “What can he want?” He went to the telephone. Amby’s voice was briskly, softly effusive. “Still stringing along with Wylie, Joe?” “Why shouldn’t I?” “I didn’t know. After to-day’s sponsor trouble—” “What trouble? Mr. Wylie sold the Munson show.”