A new Joe Carlin walked out of FKIP, the old high-spirited lilt back in his stride. Amby Carver sputtered angrily in Royal Street and Sonny Baker listened with languid amusement. Joe’s dislike of Sonny increased. Amby had brought Sonny back from the coast and had put him in a part; the actor should at least have remembered that. But Sonny, Joe saw in a flash of wisdom, would be a taker and never a giver, egotistical and selfish, and contemptuous even of his friends. One thought ran happily through the boy’s mind: Vic, ousting Amby as having nothing to do with the show, had told him to stay. Sonny taking liberties with script, and Amby trying to get tough! His voice couldn’t have begun to come back at a better time. All his worries of the past week had been unnecessary worries. Well, he’d be smart. He’d stay away and, along toward the end of the week, call Vic and tell him he was all right. After that, he might have another few days to wait. Waiting, when you waited in sick uncertainty, was hard; but those last few days of waiting would be comparatively easy. He’d be on his way back. The heady pulse of show business once more throbbed in his blood. Sentiment took him back to the restaurant off Royal Street where Vic had once rehearsed him across a table. He had hoped to have the table to himself, but a girl sat where Wylie had sat. Disappointed, he walked past the table. Then the girl turned her head and he recognized Miss Robb. Vic Wylie’s stenographer said in a rush of words: “When did you get back in circulation, Joe? Were you at FKIP? Did you hear Lucille Borden goes on the air next Monday? The show’s a comedy—_Never Tell a Woman_. I didn’t know she could play comedy. Did you?” The girl was plainly flustered. Was she afraid he’d begin to ask her questions about the _Sue Davis_ show, about Sonny Baker, about the rehearsals? He had, Joe reflected, learned all he needed to know this morning. Miss Robb rattled on: “I saw a movie last night, Joe. _Guns Along the Rio._” Joe’s mind was elsewhere. “That’s an old picture, isn’t it?” “Not so very old. Two or three months ago Cecil de Mille gave it on the air. I thought I’d like to see the picture if it ever was revived. Last night I discovered it was showing at a neighborhood playhouse. What’s the matter, Joe?” His inattention was gone. “You mean you heard a short radio version and then wanted to see the complete picture?” “Why, yes. I suppose what I heard whetted my appetite for more. Is that so strange?” “I suppose not,” Joe said slowly. “Does it happen often?” “To me? It’s happened several times. It’s happened to my sister. It’s happened to people I know. You do think it’s strange, don’t you?” “Strange isn’t the word,” said Joe. He shook off a hovering waitress. “No dessert; I’m in a hurry.” Miss Robb’s face showed relief as he stood up to go. He shook that off, too. Strangeness lay in the fact that this had been in front of him all the time and that he hadn’t seen it.