“I know that, but—didn’t you hear about Mrs. Munson? You haven’t heard?” The agent made a clucking sound. “I’m sorry I have to be the one to break the bad news, Joe; Wylie should have told you. You’re sure you didn’t hear anything about Mrs. Munson’s nephew? The actor?” Joe’s hand gripped the telephone. “A favorite nephew. You know how some women go daffy over a favorite nephew? This kid plays with an amateur group at Baltimore. Mrs. Munson thinks he’s tops.” Joe had a sudden, vivid recollection of Wylie arguing violently with somebody in the control-room. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the telephone were white. “If you’re trying to tell me something, Amby—” The agent’s voice grew softer. “I’m telling you it’s time you dropped Wylie and came back to popper. Mrs. Munson declared herself. Sponsors do that sometimes. You’re out of the cast and the favorite nephew’s in.” CHAPTER 6 In the broadcasting studios, along Royal Street, or in the office of Vic Wylie Productions, Joe Carlin would have tried to greet disaster lightly and to put up a front. But the Carlin home was sanctuary. Here, with the shades drawn and all the rest of the world shut out, he did not have to pretend. He did not have to carry a fixed smile. To-night he could not have pretended. Was it to-night he had bought dinner for Stella Joyce, Lucille Borden and Archie Munn to celebrate both the selling of a show and his first radio part? Was it only an hour ago the four of them had been boisterously light-hearted around a table in the Italian restaurant? That hour seemed ages ago, an hour out of a long-ago past. “Stella said we gave them a show,” Joe said, low-voiced, almost as though he were talking to himself. “Mr. Wylie thanked us from the control-room—he meant it. He told Arch the audition was a honey. I thought everything was set.” Tom Carlin, his pipe filled, neglected to light it. “How were you, Joe?” “Nobody said I was bad. Maybe I was. Maybe the cast was good and carried me along.” Joe’s morale was low. “Would Wylie have given you the part if you were bad?” the man asked sharply. Joe thought of the torture of a Vic Wylie rehearsal. “No.” “Then you weren’t bad. You’re sure Munson liked the show?” “Mr. Wylie said he fell hard.” “In other words, if Mrs. Munson didn’t have a nephew—” Joe said with an effort: “She must think he’ll play the Dick Davis part better. Sponsors don’t buy shows and scramble them.” Kate Carlin’s voice was quiet. “You have only Carver’s word for this, Joe?” Tom Carlin’s jaws clamped on a cold pipe-stem. “Joe, won’t you go through some of this same worry and anxiety every time you audition for a part?” “Well—” “I know,” the man said slowly. “It’s show business.” He laid down the pipe. “Haven’t you had enough of show business?”