The _Sue Davis_ show clicked. The Everts-Hall Agency compiled figures: the show had caught the public. Munson’s accountants compiled more figures: the show was selling merchandise. A show that clicked both ways might be good for forty weeks. Joe Carlin became seasoned, seasoned and smooth. At least, he told himself confidently he was becoming smooth. But gradually the restless feet of show people had dulled the bright gold of Royal Street. What had been gold to him, he saw, was merely cold stone pavement to many others. Actors, always glib about the part they expected next week, began to buttonhole him in the corridors of the broadcasting company buildings and lead him into quiet corners. He lent them money. For a week he bought Pop Bartell’s lunch. “Any day now,” Pop would say, gallant and optimistic, “Tony’ll be calling us into audition for the He people.” Joe always agreed. He didn’t believe it. _Bush-League Larry_ had been on the fire too long. October crept toward its end and Indian summer lingered in the city. The afternoon broadcast, the evening rehearsal, the morning dress, fan mail and occasional calls at FFOM and FWWO filled Joe’s day completely. Fan mail was a late development. At first he had answered the letters himself, proud and thrilled. But his mail had grown, and now it was handled from the Everts-Hall Agency on Munson stationery. He hadn’t visited his father’s store in weeks. Show business engrossed him completely. If he thought at all of books and how his father might sell more books the thought was a shadow, gone as quickly as it had come. Early in November the cast finished a Monday broadcast and was gathering up hats and coats when Wylie walked into Studio B. Usually, the appearance of the producer immediately after a show ended meant that something had gone wrong. The cast waited for the storm. There was no storm. Wylie said: “Tony tells me Munson’s signing the show for another twenty-six weeks.” The new contract would carry the show into June. Eight months of freedom from the bread-and-butter hunt! Bert Farr and Stella jitterbugged up and down the studio. Joe pranced to the piano shoved into a corner and banged out a one-finger melody. People gathered in the gallery. But they were used to people gaping in through the glass; they forgot they were there. A page opened the studio door. “Telephone, Mr. Wylie. Your office.” Wylie left them. After that the celebration died down. Joe was slipping into a top-coat when a voice, cracked and high-pitched, swung him around. “Kid!” Wylie was wild-eyed. “Munson’s closes in ten minutes. Get a message to Lucille. N.B.C. wants her. A contract. She’s hit the jackpot.” “Vic!” Stella cried.