“Didn’t I predict you’d go up in lights?” The Carver cane gave a jaunty wriggle. “Don’t forget to tell the Everts-Hall Agency I have a ten per cent piece of you, Joe.” Joe was deflated. Amby’s wait had been a money wait; Amby might really think he’d laid an egg. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Vic, and Vic said he was tops. An hour and a half later this same Vic Wylie was savagely, brutally rehearsing the next day’s show and wailing his torment. “Studio B to-morrow morning for the dress,” he told them finally and dropped into a chair. “You need three more hours of rehearsal. You’re not ready for a dress. What can I do about it? I can’t give you all my time; I have two other shows.” His eyes closed. “Did you eat?” Stella asked. The producer’s eyes opened vaguely. “Did I? I forget. Don’t bother me.” Joe went out and brought back coffee and sandwiches. “Leave them there,” said Wylie. He had whipped himself back to work and was reading script. “Eat them now,” Joe insisted. “The coffee’ll get cold.” “Another one who thinks I need looking after,” Wylie snarled. But he ate. “Kid, don’t pay much attention to me when I blow my top. Everybody in show business is nuts.” If being nuts was the price of show business success, Joe was willing to be nuts. There was no second attack of mike fright. He came to know a certain tension just before the show and during the broadcast, but that was a quickening excitement that filled him with fire. Studio B became easy, familiar ground, and he was on terms of intimacy with every announcer, and every studio producer in the city. Life took on a deep, satisfying richness. The radio columns of the _Journal_ gave him attention. He began to get fan mail. Royal Street was paved with gold, and the FKIP Building was a gleaming tower. But there were others who still walked Royal Street looking for parts; there were actors and actresses who would always be walking Royal Street. Archie Munn had picked up a few bits, in addition to his Sunday show, and was getting by. Lucille Borden, a type player, had found nothing. No station had a show that needed her type. “Mamma,” she announced casually after _Sue Davis_ had been on a week, “is going to sell hosiery for Mr. Munson. Until a part turns up. Main floor, section twelve—in case you want to buy silk stockings, Joe.” And Wylie had said she was one of the best. N.B.C. had approved her at a committee audition. Joe blurted: “If I were a producer, you’d be working.” “Infant,” Lucille said softly, “don’t let it get in your hair. This won’t be the first time I’ve crawled out on a life-line.” She bit her lip. “It probably won’t be the last.” Joe threw off a wave of bleakness. You couldn’t do anything about it—it was show business. But after that, though each day brought its zest, its rush of wonder, his exhilaration over being on the air was tempered and subdued.