“You gave me a lousy show to-day,” he snarled at the cast. “Dish-water! Hello, kid. How was she?” “I never heard anything better,” said Joe. He spoke slowly and distinctly so that Wylie could get the full, strong timbre of his voice. Of course, Vic couldn’t very well talk up in front of Sonny. But he could say: “Come out here a minute, kid,” and tell him where he stood. Wylie’s tired face cracked into a smile. “A grand gal, Lu; one of the best. Give her a part that fits her and she’s tops. What did she do with the comedy shots?” “She put them over beautifully.” “I always figured she’d be tops on smooth comedy.” Wylie opened the brief-case. “Let’s get going.” He distributed to-morrow’s show—a script to Stella, a script to Bert, a script to Sonny.... Joe walked out. He was bitter. Archie Munn had advised him in the early days to stick to Vic, had said that Vic took care of his people. Well, he’d called himself one of Vic Wylie’s people. He’d auditioned the _Sue Davis_ show; he’d originated the Dick Davis role. Vic had told him he was still in the show. He pushed through the crowd standing in the street outside FKIP and was deaf to the news broadcast coming from the speaker. Had Wylie kept him in Studio B as a piece of scenery, a prop threat to Sonny Baker that Sonny had better be good? Was that what Miss Robb knew and was afraid she might reveal? He said in growing bitterness: “Show business!” He ate a belated, warmed-over dinner in the Carlin kitchen. His father sat across the table. “See Wylie to-day, Joe?” Joe nodded. “I don’t know any more than I did yesterday. Sonny’s playing the show to-morrow.” “Have you any plans?” “No, sir.” But Joe did have plans. He’d lay siege to casting directors’ offices until he found a part. Did Vic think radio began and ended in the office of Vic Wylie Productions? When Vic wanted him again, Vic could send for him. Next day Joe Carlin once more started to make the rounds. He told himself: “I’ve been in a successful show; they know me now.” But making the rounds didn’t have the hopeful outlook it had worn last night. The bread-and-butter hunt depressed him. He had been all through this before; he was back where he had started. Now that he was at liberty, no actor, beginning to look a little seedy, led him into a quiet nook to negotiate a small loan. None of the show people mentioned the _Sue Davis_ show. Nothing else had changed. There was the same sharp anxiety that showed itself only in off-guard moments, the same glib talk of fat parts about to turn up, the same business of having a bright gag ready for casting directors, the same sham front that fooled nobody. Lucille Borden had carried a front while living on coffee and rolls. But Stella Joyce had said there was a limit.