A half-hour meant a half-hour of respite. The boy’s mind drifted back in excitement to FKIP, to the audition letter he had written, to the unknown producer rehearsing in Studio B, to the _Years of Danger_ show. He thought of Mr. Fairchild and of books, and the two streams of thought somehow drew together and mingled. An announcer’s voice, breathless, echoed in his memory. “Munson’s brings you to-morrow’s styles.” He began to tingle. Why couldn’t people be told about books, too? Thomas Carlin presents— “All set, Joe,” his father said. The thought stayed with him while they took the car from a parking lot and moved in crawls and spurts through the downtown traffic. “What was the talk with Fairchild, Joe?” “Books. He isn’t satisfied.” “We could do much better there.” “I’ve been thinking about that.” Joe was eager. “I have an idea....” “An idea?” The man was pleased and interested. “We’ll talk it out after we get home.” He swung to the left and passed a cruising taxi. “So you’re beginning to think about the business. Fine! I’ve been counting the days until you’ll come in with me. That name on the window will be changed some day. Thomas Carlin and Son.” Joe swallowed. What a spot! He tried to talk. “I—” “Yes, Joe.” The boy couldn’t swallow. He blurted: “I want to be an actor.” Tom Carlin drove six blocks in silence and stopped at a red light. Then he drove a mile in silence. Joe sighed. The scent of roses mingled with the scent of newly cut grass as they swung into the driveway. Still silent, the man stepped out of the car, and Joe followed him to the porch. Mrs. Carlin sat there stirring a pitcher of lemonade. “Kate,” Tom Carlin said without preamble, “Joe’s told me he doesn’t care to come into the store. He wants to be an actor.” The stirring spoon was motionless. “An actor?” Kate Carlin said faintly. The man’s voice was bitter. “I suppose Uncle Dan filled you full of show business last summer. Are you planning to pack up and join him?” Joe stared. “I don’t want to be a hoofer. I want radio. We have five stations here in town. Why should I go trouping?” “Well!” said Kate Carlin, relieved, and poured lemonade. “Why radio?” the man demanded. “Why an actor at all?” Joe shook his head. “You get to thinking....” He didn’t finish. “About thousands tuning you in?” his mother asked. Joe was grateful. “You see it, Mother, don’t you?” “I don’t,” Tom Carlin snapped. He put down the lemonade, untouched. “Joe, I want you to think clearly. Sometimes Uncle Dan doesn’t come here for two or three years. Why? He’s broke. Fancy Dan Carlin! If he doesn’t come with fancy money, he doesn’t come at all. That’s show business. You’re rolling in it to-day, and you’re down to a thin dime to-morrow. Is that what you want?” “That’s not radio,” said Joe stoutly. “I’m a nobody. If I got on a fifteen-minute five-a-week show to-morrow they’d pay me twenty-one dollars.” “A week?”