Frozen, he listened. Curt Lake had written a good script. A show that was dying on its feet was suddenly alive and glowing. The story unfolded with a wealth of sympathetic feeling—a boy’s suspense as pages of the album were turned, the sudden finding of some stamps of value, an offer at last of thirty-five dollars. With the business completed, the stamp man was ready to relax, and grow mellow, and talk shop. But the boy, a fortune in his pocket, was on fire to be away. His voice throbbed through the speaker: I can’t stay, Mr. Landis. Maybe I’ll come back some day and we can have a long talk. I can’t talk now. I—I want to get home. It was the curtain line—a good curtain line. A curtain line for a good show. Joe’s hand, leaden, turned off the radio. “Who was it?” Kate Carlin asked. “Sonny.” “Sure?” “A little of his own voice came through.” “How did Vic Wylie do it?” “Platters. He must have had Sonny listening to platters of the show for hours. Any good actor can mimic a voice if he hears it often enough and practises an imitation.” “Do you think he played the part well?” The admission was hard to make. “Yes.” The woman stood up abruptly. “I like you better.” “You’re swell,” Joe whispered huskily. Was his reading better or was his mother voicing blind Carlin loyalty? Munson would like Sonny, but how about Vic Wylie? How about Tony Vaux? If the _Larry_ show had not been auditioned to-day for the He people, if something had gone sour and put the audition off, his voice might be right for the postponed audition. At least, he wouldn’t have to rake a yard and let Sonny walk off with the plum. He reached for the telephone. “Joe Carlin, Tony,” he whispered. Tony boomed jovially. “Hello, Joe. How are you? Glad to hear from you. You’re beginning to sound like yourself.” Tony, Joe thought with cynical understanding, was putting on his “Howdy, folks” act. To-day it seemed like the artificial sweetness on a doctor’s bitter pill. “Did you audition to-day?” “I’m sorry I couldn’t have you, Joe.” Tony sounded as though his heart was torn. “If there was a chance to postpone— But you know how it is, Joe. When a sponsor’s ripe on the tree, that’s the day you have to pick him. We couldn’t get the spot we wanted at FKIP.” So the show had been sold! “We’ll go on at FFOM. I surely wanted you, Joe. Not that Sonny didn’t give me a good show. Smooth as oil. But ... well, you seem to work better with Pop Bartell. If anything turns up—” “Sure,” said Joe. Kate Carlin was back in the room. “I’ve lost that show, too,” Joe said. “Oh!” The word held distress. “Something’s bound to turn up; shows keep coming along.” But Joe didn’t try to tell himself that if you were good enough for Wylie, you were good enough for any of them. He had been good enough for Wylie—and he was out. And shows didn’t keep coming along this late in the season.