The tide of show people through Royal Street had thinned. Old Pop Bartell swung past, very straight and very gallant. With FFOM not concerning itself with the casting problem until to-morrow, the entrance to the FFOM Building was almost deserted. Joe went on to FWWO. He had, he reflected, been inside this station only once, the day Amby had arranged for him to audition. It had been his worst audition. FWWO, one of the smaller stations of the city, didn’t have the crowd that had besieged FKIP. Joe found three show people in the office of Gillis, the casting director. They drifted out. “Hello,” said Gillis. “Glad to see you again. Your name is—let me see now—Lawton?” “Carlin,” said Joe. “Joe Carlin.” “Carlin. Of course. What was your last show with us, Carlin?” Joe explained that he had auditioned last June. “That’s right; that’s right. I remember now.” But the director’s vagueness made it plain he didn’t remember at all. “Have a pleasant summer?” Joe made his exit. Stella Joyce was coming through the hall. “Any calls, Joe?” “Nothing,” he said wryly, and nodded back toward the office. “They didn’t remember me.” That wouldn’t last. “Did you hear the talk that FKIP had sold the _I Want Work_ show?” “They have sold it.” Joe went numb. He said slowly: “Dennis didn’t call me.” “I saw the script, Joe; the part’s out.” Stella’s bird-like voice fluttered. “Weren’t you the boy who was pleading for a job for his father? The father’s working.” Joe drew a breath and the shock passed. He might have guessed it was something like that. When you were good enough for Wylie, you were good enough for any of them. Still hot with anticipation and expectation he came down to Royal Street. Where now? Tony Vaux? He’d already auditioned the Larry Logan part in the show the Everts-Hall Agency was trying to build for the He people; when Tony wanted more, he’d call. Vic Wylie? Vic, producing an early afternoon show over FFOM and a later show over FKIP, would be at one of the stations in an agony of rehearsal. And yet it was to Wylie’s office that the boy found himself irresistibly drawn. Miss Robb typed in a deserted room. Somebody coughed in the inner room and Joe looked in the door. Archie Munn sat at a portable typewriter surrounded by newspapers. “You are witnessing,” the actor announced gravely, “the finish of one who might have been a brilliant news commentator.” He took a page of script from the typewriter and tore it in half. “FWWO’s filled the spot. One of the _Journal’s_ reporters. It’s not bad publicity for the _Journal_ and FWWO gets a free news broadcast.” He looked at his watch. “Well, somebody was thoughtful enough to die. I get a funeral to-night.” Joe stared. “Pall-bearer,” Archie said, matter-of-factly. “You have to own a tux. Three dollars for an afternoon funeral service and five dollars for an evening service.” Joe was profoundly shocked. Why, Archie was one of local radio’s stars. He said uncertainly, “You mean—you have to?”