He made the rounds thinking about Archie Munn, who had at last reached his limit. He made the rounds from FKIP to FFOM to FWWO. Casting directors were brightly glib. “Hello, Carlin; how are you?” or “Hello, Joe; how’s the boy?” Nothing more; nothing about parts. Casting directors’ routine hadn’t changed, either. You might make the rounds for weeks and for months. Playing a part in a successful show was something that had happened yesterday. Hadn’t Archie played in successful shows? Friday added another to the growing list of fruitless days. Gossip was a thread running through the stations. Practically all the September programs were renewing their radio time, and that meant few new shows and few new parts. Joe, coming out of FFOM, met Pop Bartell. Pop was a gilded lily—new suit, new coat, new hat, new shoes. Show business always dresses when it is in the money. “Joe,” the veteran announced impressively, “I owe you two dollars, and an apology for not having discharged my obligation earlier, and a round of dinners.” He made the paying of the debt a ceremony. “Are you following Lucille Borden? Join me in a cup of coffee. I am familiar with a coffee house that does very little business at this hour. We can pick it up there. I highly recommend the cheese cake.” The raftered ceiling of the coffee house was dark and smoky, the paneled walls were lined with sporting prints, the tables were bare wood, scarred and grooved. In the dim light thrown by the Dutch lamps Pop Bartell seemed to have torn ten years from what the world calls age. Lucille’s performance held Joe spellbound. “Brilliant,” Pop said softly, “truly brilliant. A remarkable characterization. I salute her. Have you heard my show, Joe?” [Illustration: Lucille’s performance held Joe spellbound. “Brilliant,” Pop said softly. “I salute her.”] Joe flushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bartell.” “I understand.” A hand patted the boy’s shoulder. “From the experiences of thirty years of wisdom, permit me to cull you wisdom. When the bad breaks come, never lose your front.” “You never lost yours, Mr. Bartell.” “Had I lost that, Joe,” the old man said gravely, “I’d have lost everything. Are you remaining for the _Sue Davis_ show?” Slim and straight, he strode toward the street. And in that moment Joe Carlin knew why front, for all its hollowness and sham, meant so much to show people. It was the hard stiffener when an actor’s precarious world was shaken; it was sanctuary and armor. He ordered more coffee. “Will you please get FKIP?”