The display in the immaculate cases down the center of the room had been changed once more. Black lettering on a card said simply: SCHOOL DAYS. The cases held fountain pens, typewriters, leather brief-cases, book-ends, and desk sets. Joe thought: “Dad certainly is up to the minute.” But it was toward the book department that he went at once. Mr. Fairchild was taking some books from the shelves and placing them on the reduced-price table. “Joe,” he said, “don’t ask me if we’re selling any books. The subject is painful.” The jackets of books made exciting, vivid splashes of color along the shelves. Titles paraded in rows, quickening, challenging, and mysterious. Books and radio again began to tumble about in Joe’s mind as they had tumbled before. Thomas Carlin Presents To-day’s Book.... But his father had said that the cost of a once-a-week would be prohibitive. And yet, if there was a way to tell people about a grand book.... But how could you tell them so that they’d want to read the book? The door of his father’s office was closed. Shadows moved upon the glass. “Who’s in with Dad, Mr. Fairchild?” “We’re carrying a new typewriter. An official of the company’s down to talk advertising appropriation with your father.” “If we advertise the typewriter, the company’ll pay part of the cost.” “It’s their typewriter, isn’t it?” Joe stared at the shelves. Books and radio were doing another tumble through his mind. His breath quickened. Clerks covered the cases with dusters at the closing hour and came back to the rear. “Are you on the air, Joe?” “What program? I keep tuning, but I don’t get you.” “What happens in radio, Joe?” Sitting on a table in the book department Joe described rehearsals, sponsor auditions, the cutting of a platter. He told them about Vic Wylie and Tony Vaux. But he did not tell them that this was all small time and that show people in small time radio had to piece out their incomes as pallbearers, and as night-shift waitresses, and as cigarette girls in night clubs. The advertising discussion in his father’s office ended. Tom Carlin came upon a rapt group in the book department. “Trying to lure my boys into radio, Joe?” he asked dryly. One of the men laughed. “It sounds exciting, Mr. Carlin, but I prefer my own job.” Whatever Tom Carlin started to say was bitten back. Father and son left to get the car. “Dad, you said a show would cost too much....” Tom Carlin laughed. “When you get your teeth in, you hang on, don’t you?” “How much would it cost?” “I don’t know. I learned what radio time would cost. I stopped right there.” “Suppose you plugged a book. Would the publisher go in with you? It’s their book.” “Assume,” his father said at last, “that I wrote to a publisher. He’d want to know what kind of show. Well, what kind?” Joe had no answer.