Dear Tony: Pop was fronting; he cracked after he left here. You’ve been swell to me, but this isn’t my game. I’ll be through next Saturday. I’m sorry.
Joe
He pushed back the chair and stood in thought beside the desk. As slowly as he had taken the pen from his pocket he reached for the telephone and called Vic Wylie’s office.
“Will you give Vic a message for me, Miss Robb? We’ve been auditioning a cast and—I guess I can’t take it. Tell him Pop Bartell’s been dropped from the Larry show. I’m throwing up my job.”
Miss Robb was dumfounded. “Tony told us he was pleased with you....”
“I know,” Joe said wearily. “Vic’ll understand.”
Office buildings were emptying, and Royal Street was a packed, shuffling, slow-moving canyon. Joe moved along with the mass until he came to the Thomas Carlin store. It was almost the closing hour, and a lone customer waited for a clerk to wrap a purchase. The lights were on and facets of radiance gleamed from the polished glass of show-cases and the polished wood of shelves. To-day Joe saw the scene with a vision that had been cleaned and washed—its bright cleanliness, its subdued brilliance of display, its subtle breath of pride and courtesy and alertness. The faces of all the clerks—strange that he had never noticed them before: friendly faces that were not merely a friendly front. The lone customer left. “Hi, Joe.” The clerks grinned at him. “Hi, boys.” He grinned at them.
“Some new books came in to-day, Joe,” Mr. Fairchild announced.
“Not now,” said Joe. He added an explanation. “Something on my mind.”
“No!” Mr. Fairchild prodded his ribs. “They’ll toss you out of the Jitterbug Union for that.”