That afternoon’s broadcast was worse than the dress. The continuity of the show had been broken, and weak, forced, hack-toiled scripts had demoralized the cast. Stella Joyce sank with the others. “Vic doesn’t want me to come to the rehearsals until I’m better,” Joe said at supper in a hoarse whisper. “Isn’t that wise?” Kate Carlin asked. “Joe!” Tom Carlin picked his words carefully. “Is there any chance of another actor being called in for the part?” Joe didn’t want to think of that. Lying in bed, wakeful, he had to think of it. He tried to think of it coldly and calmly, as though he weren’t thinking about Joe Carlin at all but about somebody else. They’d have to get a juvenile for the part. What man could play the part of a young high-school boy? A man’s voice, deepened and matured, would be a give-away; the mother-son illusion would be shattered. Certainly they couldn’t find a juvenile in this city. Amby had told him once that local radio was strangely shy of juveniles who were tops, and he had since found this to be true. Last season Sonny Baker had been here and Sonny had skimmed the cream. This season it was Joe Carlin. He’d have had the lead in _Bush-League Larry_ had the show sold. He was playing opposite Stella Joyce in _Sue Davis_. Who else was there? The answer was plain—nobody. Would they bring somebody down from New York? But what juvenile, with a chance to make the big time, would come here to play in a five-dollar-a-day show? And again the answer was—nobody. Joe Carlin thought: “I’m in luck. They’ll have to wait for my voice to come back.” Friday’s show was so painful he could not bear to hear it to the end. “When do you see the doctor again?” his mother asked. “To-morrow.” He was at Dr. Zinn’s door before the door was open. He sat in a darkened room and a beam of light illuminated his throat. “Better,” the doctor pronounced cheerfully. “Much better. Very much better.” “My voice isn’t any better,” Joe whispered. “Sometimes these attacks prove stubborn. Once the voice begins to regain its strength improvement is rapid. You must give it time.” “How much time?” “Another week—perhaps ten days. Nature does her own healing; she can’t be rushed.” Ten more days meant ten more scripts in which Curt Lake held the broken threads of a show and tried to patch with the wrong colors. “Can’t you rush this a little, Doctor?” “Now, my boy, you mustn’t be impatient,” the doctor answered tolerantly. Joe wondered what Dr. Zinn would think of patience if he were a radio actor out of a show that was going to pieces. Vic Wylie’s office was locked. The boy went to the Everts-Hall Agency. There were only three letters to be signed. “Tony wants to see you,” the publicity department told him. Genial Tony Vaux was no longer the hail-fellow-well-met who boomed jovially. He was quiet and thoughtful, almost reserved. “How’s the throat coming, Joe?” Joe shook his head.