Joe couldn’t speak.
“Curt must write in a new character and thin Pop’s lines. Thinner and thinner. Friday week he’ll be out of the show. Finished. Call him in for two o’clock to-morrow.”
A one-word hammer beat against Joe’s mind. Even small-time radio would have no place for a veteran who murdered a part. Finished!
He dreaded to-morrow, but to-morrow came. He dreaded the passing of the morning hours, but they passed. Out in the city the noon whistles blew. After that, time was a racing despair.
Youthfully slim and gallant, Pop Bartell was with them. “Good afternoon, Tony. Good afternoon, Joe. A beautiful day.”
Tony did not try to beam. “Pop, I’m afraid I have bad news. The He people want the Larry show jazzed. They think the action’s too slow and want more bang-bang.”
The old trouper took the news without blinking. “Is that definite, Tony?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And you think that’s bad news? Tony, my boy, you’re doing me a favor.” Pop coughed. “A very great favor.”
Joe thought dismally: “Front. He knew this was coming.” The boy’s throat was in a vise.