“Then you weren’t bad. You’re sure Munson liked the show?”
“Mr. Wylie said he fell hard.”
“In other words, if Mrs. Munson didn’t have a nephew—”
Joe said with an effort: “She must think he’ll play the Dick Davis part better. Sponsors don’t buy shows and scramble them.”
Kate Carlin’s voice was quiet. “You have only Carver’s word for this, Joe?”
Tom Carlin’s jaws clamped on a cold pipe-stem. “Joe, won’t you go through some of this same worry and anxiety every time you audition for a part?”
“Well—”
“I know,” the man said slowly. “It’s show business.” He laid down the pipe. “Haven’t you had enough of show business?”
Joe tried to find words to explain the unexplainable. Why, after all he had seen of the tinsel and make-believe, the gay, masquerade lightness, wasn’t he fed up? But show business was still a land of glamour. He said uncertainly: “If I do get this part—” That didn’t explain anything, either. He glanced helplessly at his mother.
“Anything good on the air to-night?” Kate Carlin asked.