“A day. Six dollars an hour for rehearsal and fifteen dollars for the show.” Mr. Carlin was incredulous. “Twenty-one dollars for less than two hours’ work?” “That’s the radio scale.” There was no arguing with an amazing twenty-one dollars a day. Tom Carlin reached for his lemonade and drained the glass. His wife pushed the pitcher across the porch table. He shook his head and turned the empty glass around and around in his hands. “I don’t want you to make a mistake, Joe. Show business has no roots. Uncle Dan used to earn three hundred dollars a week as a vaudeville performer; then came moving pictures and after that the talkies. What became of most of the stars of the silent screen? Where are the band leaders who were headliners ten years ago? Artie Shaw’s broken up his band and gone out of business. He found it a health-breaking game. Don’t you see how it works? Where are you?” Joe said nothing. “There’s no glamor in stationery. I don’t get fan mail. But if something new comes out I’m not thrown into the street. I buy the new merchandise. A shift in public taste doesn’t lay me away in moth-balls. Don’t you see it?” Joe saw it. But—He stared at the rose-trellis next door. The telephone rang and Mrs. Carlin answered. She did not come out again. Tom Carlin stood up and walked toward the hall. Joe thought: “I’m hurting him and I don’t want to.” He felt low and mean. “Dad.” Tom Carlin stopped. “I was telling you about an idea....” “What idea?” “About books. Mr. Fairchild calls it the magic land of books. Why can’t we sell that? Make people think of books that way.” “Newspaper advertising?” “N—no. Tell it to them. Put some feeling into it. Make it live.” “Are you by any chance suggesting radio?” “Munson does it. He puts on a style show to sell women’s clothing. If we could put on a sort of book show ... why couldn’t it be done with books?” Tom Carlin held up his hand. “Thanks, Joe,” he said with finality, “but one Carlin in radio is enough.” He went into the house. CHAPTER 2 On Tuesday, three days after he had written his application, Joe Carlin received a letter from FKIP: We have arranged a dramatic audition for you on June 22 at 2:15 P.M. The reception clerk at the fourth floor desk will direct you to the proper studio. Please bring with you to read for us two or three excerpts from plays. The selections need not exceed fifteen or twenty lines in length and should be varied in type. An everyday Joe Carlin, not expecting to hear from the studio for several weeks, had taken the letter from the box on the porch. An agitated Joe Carlin had noted the FKIP in the corner of the envelop. An almost incoherent Joe Carlin burst into the house. “Mother! A letter—” “Yes, Joe.” She took it from his frantic hands. “It’s about an audition. A radio audition.” “That’s what it says. An audition.” “To-morrow. An audition to-morrow.”