The motion picture chums at Seaside Park

CHAPTER X—THE PRESS AGENT

For several days the ears of our young hero had buzzed with little besides “movies” chatter. When Frank had first gone into the business and had bid in at auction the outfit now at Fairlands, he had learned the basis of the trade through an interesting day spent at a motion picture supply house in the small city near his home. He found New York on a larger scale, however. Even within the few months that had elapsed since he and his chums had started the Wonderland photo playhouse there had been improvements, innovations and new wrinkles without number.

Frank now came in contact with these. It was a great advantage to him that he had Vincent to act as guide and adviser. The latter entered into the spirit of the occasion with the zest of an expert showing a novice the ground he has so often traversed. Vincent was not only active and obliging, but he was observant and shrewd. He knew the best supply sources in the city and how to handle them.

It embarrassed Frank the first time Vincent, in his breezy showman’s way, introduced him to the proprietor of the National Film Exchange. According to the versatile and voluble ventriloquist, Frank and his chums, Randy and Pep, were young prodigies who had built up a mammoth photo playhouse enterprise at Fairlands out of nothing and had scored a phenomenal success. And still further, according to Vincent, Frank had secured a most favorable contract at Seaside Park, and was about to reap profits from a project that would set the pace in summer outing resorts for the season.

“Now this is confidential, Byllesby,” observed Vincent, buttonholing the movies man and assuming a dreadfully important air, as he glanced mysteriously about the place as if fearful of eavesdroppers—“this is probably one of a chain of shows Durham may manage. Don’t lisp it to anybody, but one of his backers is a lady—well, I think she is rated at a cool half-million in real coin. You won’t have to wait for your money from the Durham combination, so hand out only the best and latest on the closest terms—understand?”

As said, Frank found that even within the six months that had passed since he had bought their original motion picture outfit science had been busy in the improvement of old and the invention of new devices. Kinetoscopes, cameragraphs—all the varied list of projecting apparatus had progressed fast. It kept his mind on the alert to catch the explanations of the newest thing in condensing glasses, front and rear; jackets and tubes, transformers, shutters, iris dissolvers, knife switches and slide carriers. It was all part of an education in the line of business activity he had adopted, however, and Frank drank in lots of knowledge during that New York trip.

He was full of pleasant anticipation and eager to rejoin his friends at Seaside Park, to go over with them his list of the wonderful things purchased and tell them about the satisfactory arrangements he had made for new feature films as they came along. He shook Vincent’s hand heartily in parting. Frank added a word or two, telling how he hoped they would see the ventriloquist down at Seaside Park soon.

“I have a fair chance of getting something out of the road venture that burst up and left me stranded when I ran across Jolly,” explained Vincent. “As soon as that is settled, which may be in less than a week, I’ll be down at the new Wonderland—don’t doubt it. Move on a bit; will you, Durham?” Vincent spoke in a quick undertone, his eyes fixed on an approaching pedestrian who at once attracted Frank’s attention.

He was the typical tragedian out at elbows, but showing his consciousness of being “an actor.” He wore one rusty glove. The other hand was thrust into the breast of his tightly buttoned frock coat. His hair was long, and his hat, once a silk tile, was dented and yellowed by usage. Frank’s companion did not escape. The eagle eye of the oncomer was fixed upon him and would not leave him.

“Ah, Hal!” he hailed, extending his gloved hand with a bow of real elegance—“howdy. Off the circuit? So am I. I see you are eating,” and he glanced up and down the new suit of clothes Vincent had been enabled to purchase from his share in the bird house speculation.

“That’s about all I am able to arrange for,” declared Vincent, bluntly.

“I expect a check,” proceeded the newcomer grandly. “Avaricious, but wealthy relative. If I could anticipate till to-morrow, now——”

“Not from me, I can tell you that,” interrupted Vincent definitely.

“Only a dollar. You see——”

“A dime wouldn’t make any difference until I get my settlement from the people who sent me out to starve,” insisted Vincent.

Frank was interested in the odd, airy individual, who struck him as a rather obsolete type of the fraternity. He smiled, and this was encouragement for the frayed actor, who touched his hat again and extended his gloved hand, this time towards Frank, with the words:

“Surely we have met somewhere on the boards? Was it in Philadelphia, when I was press agent for the United Thespian? Perhaps that will assist your memory.”

Frank good-naturedly accepted and glanced over a very dirty and worn card bearing the inscription: “Roderick James Booth: Press Agent.” Frank shook his head,

“I have not had the honor of meeting you before, Mr. Booth,” he said.

“In the line, I suppose?” insinuated Booth.

“If you mean of theatricals—hardly,” replied Frank. “I have done a little in the motion picture field.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Booth, with great animation, striking a pose—“there, indeed, is a field. Young man; I proclaim a wonderful future for the photo playhouse. Let me see, where are you located now—and the name, I didn’t quite catch the name?”

“I am Frank Durham,” replied our young hero, “and with some others expect to open a new motion picture show at Seaside Park.”

“Ah, a hit! Think of it! Beside the soothing waves, dancing breezes, vast throngs, stupendous profits. Only one thing lacking—an able press agent. Sir,” and Booth raised himself to his loftiest height, “I papered Baltimore till the house was jammed. The United Thespians—sir, a moment, aside. Mr. Vincent will pardon us. Could you anticipate——”

Frank knew what was coming. The man did not look like a drinker and he did look hungry. Vincent nudged Frank warningly, but Frank could not resist a generous impulse.

Mr. Booth almost danced as a crisp dollar bill was placed in his hand. Then he took out a pencil and memorandum book. Very carefully and laboriously he began to write:

“Durham, Seaside Park. I. O. U. one dollar. Mem: suggest plan for publicity campaign.”

“You’ve put your foot in it this time, Durham,” exclaimed Vincent almost wrathfully, as with a great flourish Booth went on his way.

“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Frank, “the poor fellow probably needs a square meal.”

“Yes, but you needn’t have told him who you were and about the new Wonderland. Why, within an hour he will be telling his friends of a new opening at Seaside Park—engaged for the season—forfeit money already paid. Besides that, I wouldn’t wonder to see him put in an appearance personally with one of his wild publicity schemes direct at Seaside Park. Oh, you can laugh, but once he sets out on your trail, and you encourage him, you’ll find it no easy matter to shake him off,” a prediction by the way that Frank and his chums had reason to recall a little later.

Frank was in fine spirits when he reached Seaside Park. Everything had gone famously with him in the city. He had been introduced to a man who operated a string of summer resort motion picture shows, and he had gleaned an immense amount of information. The man had reduced his special line to a science and had made money at it, and Frank was greatly encouraged.

It was late in the afternoon when he started from the depot for the new quarters. He was pleased and satisfied as his eye ran over the front of the old store. Various touches of paint had made the entrance attractive, the broad windows bore each a fine plain sign, and a very ornamental ticket booth was in place. Frank found the front doors partially open, and passed the length of the great room to come unawares upon his friends in the living quarters at the rear.

“Good!” shouted a familiar voice, and Ben Jolly, wearing a kitchen apron and just getting supper ready, waved a saucepan over his head in jubilant welcome.

“I say, you people have been doing some work here since I left,” cried Frank, as he shook hands with Randy. “Why, where is Pep?”

“There’s a story to that,” explained Randy. “He’s safe and sound, but may not be here till to-morrow or the next day.”

“Gone home to see his folks?” hazarded Frank.

“No, not that,” dissented Randy. “Tell you, Frank, it’s quite a long story. Suppose we get the meal on the table, and seated comfortably, and we’ll all have a lot to tell; eh?”

“Just the thing,” voted Jolly with his usual enthusiasm. “I’ve got a famous rice pudding on the bill of fare, Durham, and I’ll guarantee you’ll enjoy a good home meal once more.”

“That’s just what I will,” agreed Frank.

He sat down and busied himself sorting some bills and circulars with which his pockets were filled. Then, as the smoking viands were placed on the table, he joined his friends.

“Now then, Durham, you first,” directed Jolly. “How’s the New York end of the proposition?”

“Famous,” reported Frank heartily. “I’ve made some fortunate discoveries and investments—pass the potatoes; will you, Randy?”

“Hold on!” cried a familiar voice—“I’m on the programme for some of that, too!”

CHAPTER XI—CROSSED WIRES

“Fired,” explained Pep tersely, and looking as if he had not enjoyed the experience one bit. “Say, don’t bother me now about it. I’m hungry as a bear, and had to walk eight miles to get here before dark, and I’ll feel better natured when I’ve had something to eat and a little rest.”

Ben Jolly arched his eyebrows in an inquiring way and Randy looked Pep over sharply. Jolly had just returned from Fairlands that morning, and Randy had heard from Pep by mail only twice during his sojourn at the Tyson home at Brenton. From all he had learned and seen during his brief visit there, Randy had been led to believe that Pep would return with waving colors. He would not only be mended up, as Randy had reason to figure it out, but would have a comfortable sum of money representing lost time.

Pep, however, did not look like a favorite of fortune. He used both hands with equal celerity in dispatching the meal, and his injured wrist seemed to give him no inconvenience or pain. His face was glum, however, and when he spoke of being “fired” Randy knew that something was up.

“Tell us about this accident of yours, Pep,” urged Frank as all hands got over the first promptings of appetite.

“Randy will,” snapped Pep.

Randy was agreeable to the suggestion. He was glad to descend on the heroism of his chum, and dwelt somewhat upon the bravery of Pep in risking his life for the little child in the baby carriage. Randy led the course of the narrative to his visit to Brenton, the peculiar situation in which he found Pep, and detailed the contents of the two letters he had received from their absent partner.

“Well, Pep,” hailed Frank heartily, at the end of the story. “I suppose you’ve turned out an adopted son or great favorite with this Mr. Tyson.”

Pep had just finished a second helping of Jolly’s famous rice pudding and was ready to talk now.

“Oh, yes, I have! See me!” he retorted in a scornful and disgusted way. “Say, the next fellow who plays me for an invalid will be a good one, I tell you. It’s all right up to where Randy left me in the arms of luxury at the Tyson residence. Yes, it was all right for two days after that. Then I got into my usual trim—restless. Of course I couldn’t work with my bad arm, but it didn’t bother me a bit. I told Mr. Tyson so. He spoke to that old fogy surgeon of his and after a regular battle we came to terms.”

“What terms, Pep?” inquired Frank.

“I wanted something to do. I was dead sick of hanging around doing nothing. It seems that Mr. Tyson runs a broker’s office in Brenton. It’s a branch of a big Wall Street concern in New York City. They do some business, too, and he hires a lot of clerks. Well, the surgeon said that as long as I didn’t use my bad arm it was all right, so old Tyson takes me down to the office. First day he put me at the information desk. Then the boy who held that position regularly came back and he set me at one of the telephones.”

“What doing, Pep?” inquired Jolly.

“Taking quotations and orders on the long distance. The ’phone was arranged on a standard and I didn’t have to handle it at all. I had a pad of paper at my side. All I had to do was to write out the quotations, or orders. Then I would touch an electric bell and a boy would take them to the manager.”

“Sort of stock exchange business; eh?” propounded Jolly.

“Yes, that way,” assented Pep. “The first day I got through grandly. Old Tyson told me I had the making of a smart man in me and advised me to cut away from the movies and become a second Vanderbilt. They kept me at the ’phone yesterday, too. It’s too bad they did,” added Pep grievously. “I reckon they think so now.”

“Explain, Pep,” urged the curious Randy.

“Well, about two o’clock in the afternoon there was a rush of business. Everybody in the office was busy. I heard the manager say that it looked like a regular Black Friday, whatever that was, the way stocks and bonds were being juggled. Right when everything was going at lightning speed and the office was in a turmoil, long distance says: ‘Buy for Vandamann account at twenty’—and then there was a hiss and a jangle—crossed wires—see?”

Pep’s engrossed auditors nodded silently, eager to hear the remainder of his story.

“Then I got the balance of the order—as I supposed—‘one thousand shares Keystone Central.’ Orders came piling up and I had all I could do to write them down. ‘Buy one thousand Keystone Central at twenty’ went to the manager with the rest. I thought no more of it until this morning. I was at my ’phone thinking of how I’d be home with the rest of you Saturday, when the manager, mad as a hornet, came to me. ‘You see Mr. Tyson just as quick as you can,’ he snapped at me, and I did. Mr. Tyson had just found out that I had mixed orders. I talked about crossed wire, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. ‘The idea of loading us down with that bustling stock at twenty, when it was offered on the exchange at three cents yesterday!’ he howled. ‘Here get out of here and stay out of here. And here, you’ve cost a pretty penny, and you can take that stock for your pay.’ And with that,” concluded Pep, “he hurled this package at me, and I’m a bloated bondholder.”

Pep drew a little package of green and yellow documents from his pocket. He flung them on the table in a disgruntled way. Ben Jolly picked them up and looked them over.

“Heard of the Keystone Central,” he observed—“lot of watered stock and new people trying to squeeze out the old shareholders. Maybe a few dollars in these, Pep.”

But the disgusted Pep waved documents and remark away with disdain.

“Burn ’em up; throw ’em away—don’t care what you do with them,” he declared. “I am sick of the whole business. I want to forget how mean money makes a millionaire, and just get back into the gladness and bustle of the old motion picture proposition.”

“All right, Pep,” said Jolly blandly, pocketing the papers. “I’ll just take care of the documents for you. They may bob up in a new way some time; you never can tell.”

“What about moving the outfit down from Fairlands, Mr. Jolly?” here interrupted Frank.

“That’s so—my report is due; isn’t it? Why, I’ve arranged for everything. Boxed up and crated what there was in good shape, and expect they’ll arrive to-morrow or the next day.”

“By rail, of course?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a long distance, there’s a lot of bad roads and hills to climb, and freight was the only way. I left the chairs. It would cost as much to move them as they were worth.”

“We had better stock up new as to the seating feature,” said Frank, “seeing that we need double what we had at Fairlands. Well, boys, now to show you what I have accomplished.”

Frank had done so much that he held their fascinated attention unbroken for well nigh an hour. Jolly smiled and nodded his approval as Frank told in detail of his negotiations with the supply houses in the city. Pep’s eyes snapped with anticipation of the brilliant way in which the new Wonderland was going to open.

“It looks all smooth sailing; doesn’t it now?” Randy submitted in his optimistic way.

“How soon will we open?” pressed the eager Pep.

“I should think we would be all ready within a week or ten days.”

“Oh, pshaw! have to wait that long?” mourned Pep.

“You want things right; don’t you?” asked Randy.

“Oh, of course, of course,” responded Pep, “only every day counts. Before we know it someone else will break in and get all the cream off the proposition.”

“No, no, friend Pep,” laughed Ben Jolly confidently. “We’ve got too good a start in the movies race at Seaside Park, and we’re bound to win.”

CHAPTER XII—BUSINESS RIVALS

“And don’t forget that I told you so!”

“Told us what?” interrogated Randy.

“You’ll find out in a minute.”

Pep piloted the group in his usual impetuous way. Quite a busy boardwalk diverged from the main boardwalk thoroughfare, and some minor stores and restaurants of the cheaper class occupied the first block.

About midway of the square was a vacant building, once a dime museum. Frank and his friends had noticed this in their search for a business location. It was off the main route of travel, however, and the building was old, ramshackly and set down from the street level, the lot lying in a depression in the ground so that one had to descend three steps to the entrance.

“There you are,” pronounced Pep in an impressive way. “What do you say to it?”

Frank, Randy and Ben Jolly came to a halt as they faced an electric sign running out from the front of the building.

“‘National,’” read Randy—“‘National’ what?”

“Photo playhouse,” asserted Pep.

“Do you know that?” challenged Jolly.

“I do. When I passed by a man who was wiring the sign told me that a big New York fellow and a Seaside Park party were going to open up next week.”

“The mischief!” exclaimed Randy, roused up.

“Say,” remarked Jolly, bristling up at this hint of rivalry, “we want to get busy.”

“Oh, it doesn’t alarm me,” spoke Frank. “In the first place it is off the mainly traveled route. Besides, the neighborhood is cheap and I would imagine they wouldn’t get more than a nickel.”

“It’s worth looking up—always keep track of what your competitors are doing,” advised Jolly.

“Why I say,” suddenly remarked Frank—“their sign is wrong.”

“How wrong?” questioned Randy, and then he added: “That’s so: ‘NATONAL.’ They’ve left out an I.”

“It’s so,” cried Pep, “maybe they bought some second hand letters and there wasn’t any I’s in the lot.”

“‘Big New York fellow,’” observed Jolly thoughtfully. “Wonder who he is? Maybe you stirred things up in the city, Durham, and started somebody on our trail.”

“Well, we must expect competition,” replied Frank. “It shan’t scare us.”

“No, we’ll stick to a first-class basis and be the leader,” declared Randy.

“You fellows go on,” spoke Pep. “I’ll sort of spy out the enemy’s country—hey?”

“I would like to know who is behind this ‘National’ with an I missing,” said Frank, and they turned about and resumed their way to the freight depot, leaving Pep to his own devices.

Pep was not afraid to venture anywhere or address anybody. He was inside the old building and had accosted the man he had seen outside within five minutes after his friends left him. The man knew all about the proposed extensive refitting of the old barn of a place, but did not know who was backing the new show outside of a big man from New York and a party with money at Seaside Park. Pep pumped him dry so far as the arrangements for the show were concerned.

“Hello, Pep,” hailed him just as he went outside again.

“That isn’t my name—it’s Pepperill,” retorted Pep, resenting the mistake and the familiarity. He was in a fiery mood just now, but as he recognized young Peter Carrington and noticed that he was headed for the building he had just left, Pep decided that he would lose nothing by using a little tact.

“Well, that’s all right,” observed Peter in his usual airy manner—“been into my show?”

“Your show?”

“That’s what,” and Peter poked his cap back on his head, stuck his thumbs in his armpits, and grinned at Pep in a patronizing sort of way.

“Oh, I see,” said Pep, “you’re the Seaside Park capitalist I heard about?”

“Did some one honest say that?” inquired Peter, his vanity immensely gratified. “Well, I have invested something—got a little money from my aunt, although she doesn’t know that I’ve gone into the show business. She’d be mad if she knew I was going to set up opposition to you fellows, for she likes you. Business is business, though. You fellows wouldn’t take me in and I had to get some other partners; didn’t I?”

“Who are your partners?” probed Pep innocently.

“Well, one of them is Greg Grayson. He’s from your town. You know him?”

“Slightly,” assented Pep, his lips drawing together grimly.

“A friend of his has invested something, too,” rambled on the effusive Peter. “Our mainstay, though, is a New York man. They say he’s ’way up in the moving picture line.”

“What is his name?” pressed Pep.

“Mr. John Beavers—ever hear of him?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“That’s because you’re new in the business,” declared Peter. “He says he’s the first man who ever started a moving picture show.”

“Also a capitalist, I suppose?” insinuated Pep.

“Well, he’s got a lot of investments that have tied up his ready cash, he says, but he will stand back of us if we need more money.”

“Well,” said Pep, “I must be moving on. The more the merrier, you know.”

“I must tell you,” hurried on Peter—“We’re going to have two private boxes in our show.”

“What for?”

“Oh, to make a hit. Friends, members of the press and all that—see? I say, Smith, I hope you’re going to exchange professional courtesies.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Pep.

“Complimentaries, and all that.”

“I don’t think we are going to have any complimentaries,” replied Pep. “Our space will be for sale; not to give away. That fellow run a photo playhouse!” snorted Pep wrath fully to himself, as he left the spot. “Why, he hasn’t got the gumption to run a peddler’s cart, or a shoestring stand!”

Pep reached the freight house just as his friends were leaving it. They had arranged for the reception and delivery of their traps from Fairlands to the new playhouse. This meant busy times, getting in order to open up for business. Pep told of his new discoveries as to the personnel of the rival firm of the “Natonal.” Randy flared up at once.

“It’s half spite work,” he declared. “This Peter is mad because we wouldn’t take him into our scheme and Greg Grayson owes us a grudge, or fancies he does, and wants to pay it back. He and his cronies were always ready for any mean mischief back at Fairlands.”

“Oh, well, as long as it is fair business rivalry, who cares?” submitted Jolly. “From the start they’ve made I don’t think they will last long.”

“They will do all they can to annoy us while they do,” declared Pep.

“Did you tell young Carrington about the missing letter in the ‘Natonal’ sign, Pep?” inquired Frank.

“No, I didn’t,” replied Pep, ungraciously. “Think I’m around mending his blunders? Humph! guess not. If I had, do you know what he would have said?”

“No; what, Pep?” pressed Randy, with a broad grin.

“He’d say: ‘Oh, yes, that’s so. Anybody can see it’s spelled wrong. Didn’t notice it before. Of course it should be “Natonel.”’”

All hands laughed at Pep’s sally. Then Frank asked:

“Did you ever hear of this John Beavers, Mr. Jolly?”

“Never did, Durham. I wonder where the crowd picked him up? Don’t think he’s a notable, though. Judging from the way he’s letting them hold the bag, I reckon he isn’t much of a capitalist.”

They emerged upon the boardwalk as Jolly concluded his remarks. Pep was the first to discover a commotion amid the crowds ahead.

“There’s some new excitement,” he cried. “Let’s hurry up and see what it is.”

Just then a man dashed through the throng on a dead run. In hot pursuit was a second individual, fast overtaking him and shouting as he sprinted:

“Stop that man!”

CHAPTER XIII—ALL READY!

“I’ve got you; have I?” stormed Vincent, making a grab at the fugitive and seizing him by the arm. Then he whirled him around and transferred his clutch to the throat of the man. “Now, then, you pull off that coat in a jiffy, or I’ll fling you out into the street.”

“Yes, yes, certainly—ssh! don’t raise a row. Likely to be known here. Going into business—hurt my reputation.”

“Your reputation, you miserable rat!” shouted Vincent, greatly excited. “You’ve led me a fine chase; haven’t you, after all I did for you! I made up my mind, though, I’d find you and get back my property, if I had to chase you half over the country.”

“Return coat in private—secluded spot.”

“Take it off now!”

“Leaves me without any.”

“Take it off!” fairly yelled Vincent. Then, as the man obeyed he wrenched it from his grasp, threw it to the pavement and grasping the fugitive by the shoulders, ran him straight up to the watering trough.

Splash! splash! splash! “Ooo—oof! Leggo! Murder!”—a wild riot of sounds made the welkin ring. A fast-gathering mob bustled nearer. Dripping, hatless, coatless, the helpless fugitive was given a shove down the sidewalk by Vincent, who turned and confronted a police officer.

“Hi, there!” challenged the latter sternly—“what’s the trouble here?”

“No trouble at all,” retorted Vincent. “I’ve saved you that. That fellow slinking out of sight between those two buildings stole my coat and I’ve got it back—that’s all.”

“A thief; eh?”

“Oh, he’s out of sight and I’m satisfied,” advised Vincent. “I gave him free lodging and feed in the city and he paid me back by robbing me. We’re square now and no need of your services, thank you. By the way, though, you might glimpse him so as to be able to keep track of him. He’s a slippery customer to have in a town where there’s even door mats or lawn mowers lying around loose.”

Frank had picked up the coat from the pavement where Vincent had flung it and he now offered it to him.

“That you, Durham?” hailed the ventriloquist, mopping his perspiring brow—“and the rest of the crowd? Howdy—I declare, I was ruffled. I can stand anything but ingratitude.”

“Who is the fellow, anyway?” inquired Jolly.

“Oh, he’s been a hanger-on at the movies and a sponge and dead beat for a long time. His name is Jack Beavers.”

“What’s that?” cried Pep, sharply. “Why, that’s the name of the ‘big New York man’ who is going to start the new show with Peter Carrington and his crowd.”

“What new show?” inquired Vincent, quickly.

Pep told of the prospective photo playhouse that had come to their attention that day.

“Say,” exclaimed Vincent, belligerently, when the information had been accorded. “I’ll follow this up and put that fellow out of business.”

“I wouldn’t trouble, Mr. Vincent,” said Frank. “We don’t want to give Carrington and his friends any excuse for claiming we are persecuting them. If this man is the kind of fellow you describe, he will soon run himself out.”

“And them, too,” declared Jolly.

“Birds of a feather—all of them,” commented Pep.

Vincent explained that he was due to return at once to the city. He expected to have his claim against the company that had stranded him and owed him money come up in court at any time, and wanted to be on hand to present his evidence. The boys, however, prevailed upon him to accompany them home and have at least one good, old-fashioned meal with them. Then they all went with him to his train.

“Hope to see you soon again, Hal,” remarked Ben Jolly, as they shook hands good-bye.

“You will, Jolly—it’s fate,” declared Vincent. “I’m running up against your crowd all the time, and I guess it’s on the books. Bow-wow-wow!” and he winked at Pep, always alive for mischief.

“Meow!—p’st! pst!”—and a kitten in the arms of a fussy old man just getting aboard of a coach arched its back at the well-counterfeited imitation of the ventriloquist, while its mistress ran up the steps in a violent flurry.

“Let me out—let me out!” came next, apparently from a big sample case a colored porter was carrying for a traveling salesman. Down came the case with a slam and the porter stood regarding it with distended eyes and quivering face.

“Lawsy sakes, boss!” he gurgled—“what you done got in dere?” and very gingerly and rapidly he carried the case into the coach when prevailed upon to do so by its somewhat startled owner.

Then with a smile the versatile Vincent jumped aboard of the train, waving his hand cheerily in adieu to his smiling friends.

“A jolly good fellow, that,” commented Frank, as the train pulled out. “I only hope we will be able to afford to engage his talents for the new Wonderland.”

“You’ve just got to,” vociferated Pep. “He’s a regular drawing card and a show all in himself.”

And now came the real work of the motion picture chums. The new photo playhouse was all ready for the outfit, and when that was brought from the freight house there was plenty of lifting, carrying and placing to attend to. The big electric sign had to be reset and adjusted, the sheet iron booth for the machine put in place, and for four days there were a multitude of little things to accomplish.

Jolly got track of a closed show at Brenton where the chairs were for sale and drove an excellent bargain in their purchase, and also in the delivery.

It was Thursday night when for the first time the electric lights were turned on, so the boys could see how the playhouse “showed up,” as they expressed it. They all went out in front, Jolly turning the switches from inside. To the excited vision of the enthusiastic Pep the result was a burst of glory. The sign came out boldly. The many windows of the building, standing alone by itself as it did, made Randy think of a palace.

Frank was more than pleased. He was proud of his playhouse, proud of his loyal friends and deeply gratified as a crowd began to gather and he overheard their flattering and encouraging comments.

“Why, I saw that blaze three blocks down the street,” declared a breathless urchin, coming up on a run.

“Yes, it was so bright I thought it was a fire,” echoed a companion.

It was arranged that the three chums should visit their home town next morning. Jolly was left in charge of the playhouse and told them to have a good time and throw all care from their minds, as he would be able to complete all the arrangements for the opening Monday night.

The boys had a splendid time at Fairlands. They were highly elated over their business progress in the new venture and infused their families and friends with their own enthusiasm and delight. The Fairlands weekly paper printed a nice article about “Three Rising Young Business Men of Our Town,” and altogether as they took the train to return to Seaside Park each one of the trio felt that life was worth living and honorable business success a boon well worth striving for.

“And now for the grandest event of our life,” announced Pep, buoyantly—“the Opening Night!”

CHAPTER XIV—“THE GREAT UNKNOWN”

“And the finest ever seen,” replied Pep. “I never saw such a daybreak. It’s going to be just warm enough to make people want to stay out for the evening breeze, and that means crowds passing our place until late.”

It was a jolly quartette that sat down at the table about five o’clock. The rest over Sunday had done them all good. No details had been left to chance or haste. Much satisfaction was felt in the knowledge that all the work thus far had been done well, with no loose ends to bother about when the programme began.

“There’s some song posters to put up—they are due in the morning mail,” observed Randy.

“Yes, and if that new film winder is sent along we might install it in place of the old one we brought from Fairlands,” suggested Jolly. “I suppose you want to go through a test before night, Durham?”

“So as to give you the music cues? I think we had better,” assented Frank. “Besides, we had better see that the films run smooth.”

“I sent for a piano-tuning key to the city Saturday,” said Jolly. “As soon as I get it I will give the instrument a little overhauling. Jolting over one hundred miles in a freight car doesn’t improve the tone any.”

Randy and Pep went out together about ten o’clock to get some posters from the printers. Frank had brought from the city quite a lot of gaily colored sheets with a blank space left at the top. Here the name and location of the new playhouse had been inserted. It took the boys until noon to get these placed. They posted them in nearly all the stores along the boardwalk. The hotel they had stayed at let them put two in the lobby, and they covered the town in a way satisfactory to themselves.

“Wonder what the National people are thinking of doing?” submitted Randy, as they sat down to dinner.

“They are going to open to-night—that’s one thing I know,” reported Pep.

“They’re not making much stir about it, then,” observed Jolly. “I haven’t heard anybody speak about it, whom I ran across to-day.”

“I met the man who is doing their electrical work,” said Pep. “He and I are quite chummy. He told me they were in a fearful mix-up, with things half provided for, but that they would surely open this evening.”

“What’s it to be—a nickel?” inquired Jolly.

“No a dime, he says; but he showed me a bunch of complimentaries and laughed and said he’d sell them cheap. I haven’t set my eyes on that Peter and the fellow from Fairlands anywhere around town, but I guess they’re pitching in with the workman to get things in order.”

Wednesday of the week previous a neat postal card telling of the new photo playhouse had been sent out to every name in the little local directory of Seaside Park. The hotel men had taken a bunch of these and had agreed to put one in the mail of each guest. The local paper happened to be an exchange of the Fairlands weekly, and the editor of the latter had given Frank a letter of introduction to the Seaside Park publisher. As a result, the latter had copied the article about the chums from the home paper and had also given a glowing description of the new playhouse on the beach.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when the lively Pep came into the playhouse with a new excitement on his mind.

“Say, fellows,” he announced, “we’re clear beat out.”

“Hi! what’s up now?” asked Ben Jolly.

“The National without an I has got us going. Just met Peter Carrington. He’s jumping around like a chicken on a hot griddle. Just had time to flash by me and crow out, ‘Watch out for our grand free concert to-night.’”

“Is that so—hum!” observed Jolly, musingly. “I wish I’d thought of that. I suppose we ought to make some little noise the opening night. Too late to arrange for it now, though. Just in time for practice, Pep. Put on that best coat of yours and a flower in your buttonhole, and usher in imaginary thousands, while Powell piles up uncounted dimes in the ticket office and Durham shoots the films. Ready—go!” and with a crash of the piano keys the volatile fellow began a lively overture.

“A small but critical audience pronounced the rehearsal A.1.,” declared Jolly with a thrilling sweep of the piano keys as the three films were reeled off from the operator’s booth. “Slow on that last picture, though, Durham. It’s a good one and any audience will be glad to see it prolonged.”

“Yes, being an ocean scene, I should think ‘A Wrecker’s Romance’ would take great with the smell of real salt water blowing right into the playhouse,” submitted Randy.

“Where the old wrecker hails the ship in the fog I want to work in some slow, solemn music,” proceeded Jolly. “Eh? What’s that? Mr. Jolly? That’s me. What is it, lad?”

A messenger boy from the hotel had appeared at the entrance to the playhouse and asked for Mr. Benjamin Jolly. He delivered a note to that individual. The latter read it, his face breaking into a delighted smile.

“Say, my friends,” he announced, seizing his hat and rushing unceremoniously from their company, “rush call, important though unexpected. Back soon,” and Jolly chuckled and waved his hand gaily.

He was all smiles and still chuckling when he returned, which was in about an hour. They had decided on an early supper so as to have plenty of leisure to look over things before the playhouse opened, at half past six o’clock. As a starter, they planned to give three entertainments, each beginning on the hour.

“You seem to feel pretty good, Mr. Jolly?” observed Randy, as they dispatched the appetizing meal, their helpful friend brimming over with comical sayings.

“Oh, I’ve got to live up to my name, you know,” explained Jolly. “Besides, always dreaming, you see. Been dreaming this afternoon of big houses, delighted throngs, pleasant surprises,” and the speaker emphasized the last word, looking mysterious the while.

Frank and Randy, full of the theme of the hour and its practical demands upon their abilities, did not notice this particularly. Pep, however, eyed Jolly keenly. He lingered as his chums got up from the table. Somehow the exaggerated jollity of their lively pianist, to Pep’s way of thinking, was connected with the mysterious message he had received earlier in the afternoon. Pep was an unusually observant lad. He was furthermore given to indulging a very lively fancy.

Now he went up to Jolly. Very searchingly he fixed his eye upon the piano player. Very solemnly he picked up one of Jolly’s hands and looked up the arm of his coat.

“Hello!” challenged Jolly—“what you up to now, you young skeesicks?”

“Oh, nothing,” retorted Pep—“just thought I’d like to see what you’ve got up your sleeve, as the saying goes.”

“Ah,” smiled Jolly—“suspect something; do you?”

“Got a right to; haven’t I?” questioned Pep, shrewdly.

“Well,” retorted Jolly, slowly, stroking his chin in a reflective way, “I won’t say—just now. I’ll give you a tip, though, Pep.”

“Yes?” cried Pep, expectantly.

“About six-thirty look out for something.”

“What will it be, now?” projected Pep, eagerly.

“The Great Unknown,” replied Ben Jolly, with an enigmatical smile.

CHAPTER XV—THE SPEAKING PICTURE

“Carrington and his crowd are all business,” was the report. “I could see Greg and another bustling about inside. Everything looks make-shift, though, as if they had rushed things and weren’t more than half ready to begin. They were setting bare boards on top of kegs to answer for seats, and they had mended one of their broken front windows with a piece of canvas.”

“Did you see anything of the famous band we heard about?” inquired Frank.

“No, but at one side of the steps that lead into the National there was a little platform with four chairs on it.”

“I think that is their stand for the free concert Peter Carrington was bragging about,” remarked Jolly.

“Four, did you say?” queried Pep, quickly. “Why, say, I’ll bet I know.”

“Know what, Pep?” inquired Jolly.

“About their band. Bet you it’s those four fellows who wander around calling themselves the Little German Band. They play for lunches, or take up a collection from the crowd, most any way to pick up a few pennies. And, oh, such music! I heard them down at the merry-go-round yesterday.”

“And that isn’t all,” added Randy. “Somewhere they have bought an old transparency. Strung it clear across the front of the building. It reads in big red letters, ‘Grand Opening.’ That’s all right at a distance, but as you get nearer up to it you can see where the color has faded where they tried to paint out a smaller line. ‘Free Lunch All Day’ was the line I made out plain as could be. You can imagine where it came from.”

Pep kept his watch in his hand and his eyes fixed upon it most of the time for the next half-hour. He almost counted the seconds in his impatience to see operations begin. He strolled restlessly between the living room where his friends sat conversing, to the front of the place, peering out of the windows and reporting progress at each trip:

“Lot of people looking over the place.

“Quite a crowd strolling by as if hanging around just waiting to get into the show.

“Dozen children in line waiting to buy tickets.

“Looks to me as if the people are heading from the beach in this direction. Hope we’ll be able to handle the crowds.

“Say, Frank, it’s twenty minutes after six.”

“The crowds will keep, Pep,” said Frank with a smile. “We’ve got to follow up a system, you know.”

“For mercy’s sake, what is that!” shouted Randy, suddenly.

There had swept in through the open windows upon the evening breeze a strange—a startling—series of sounds: “Ump! Ump!” “Bla-aat bla-aat,” “Flar-op, flar-op,” “Tootle-tootle”—a dismal melody filled the room, half notes, a mixture of notes, some of sledge hammer force, some weak and squeaking.

“Oh, hold me!” cried Randy, going into convulsions of laughter—“it’s that Little German Band.”

This seemed true, for they could trace the source of the music after a moment or two. They proceeded from the neighborhood of their business rival. How they might sound directly at their source it was difficult to surmise. Arising from the hollow in which the National was located, they lacked all acoustic qualities, like a band playing into a funnel.

“Twenty-seven minutes and a half after six,” declared Pep abruptly.

“All right,” nodded Jolly, arising from his seat. “It’s not dark yet, but I suppose we will have to shoot on the lights.”

The quartette started from the rear room in company, but Pep was making for the front entrance as soon as Jolly moved towards the piano. He came to a dead halt with a blank face as there sounded out, directly in front of the place, a sharp, clear bugle call.

“Ahem!” observed Ben Jolly, with significant emphasis.

Frank and Randy stood stock still. They were both surprised and entranced, for after that rollicking bugle call there rang out a sweet home melody. Whoever was creating those gentle yet clear and expressive notes was a master of the cornet. The hour, the scene were in harmony with the liquid notes that gushed forth like golden beads dropped into a crystal dish.

The wondering Pep, as if in a spell, moved noiselessly down the aisle and looked out through a window. Standing at the extreme inner edge of the walk was the cornetist. He wore a neat military costume. His close bearded face made Pep think of photographs he had seen of the leader of a noted military band. From every direction the crowds were gathering. They blocked the walk and the beach beyond it. A hush showed the appreciation of this enchanted audience until the tune was finished. Then the air was filled with acclamations.

“Friend of mine—it’s all right. Thought I’d sort of offset that brass band down at the National,” sang out Ben Jolly at the piano, and Pep now knew what his reticent friend had “up his sleeve.” “All ready—here she goes!”

A chorus of “Ah’s!” and “Oh’s!” swelled forth as the electric sign and then the whole front of Wonderland burst into a glow of electric radiance. Frank was into the sheet iron booth in a jiffy. Jolly sat prim and precise at the piano. Randy was in place in the little ticket office just as Pep threw open the front doors.

Pep tried to look and act dignified, and did very well, but he felt so elated as the crowd poured in that he was all smiles and made everybody feel at ease instead of awed. Wonderland could not have opened at a more favorable moment. A better advertisement than the cornet solo could not have been devised. The crowd attracted by the music lingered, and most of them decided to take in the show.

Nearly every seat in the house was taken as Jolly began the overture. As the electric bell announced the darkening of the room Pep had to hunt for vacant chairs.

Pep was particularly attentive to the cornetist, who entered the playhouse after giving a second tune on his instrument.

“Near the front, please,” he said to Pep, and he seemed satisfied as the young usher found him a chair in the front row next to the curtain.

The first film was full of fun and laughter. The second was an airship specialty and went off very well. The feature film of the series was “A Wrecker’s Romance.” It had just enough sea flavor to catch with the audience. There was a schooner caught in a storm that was lost in the gathering fog after sending up a rocket as a signal of distress.

The next scene showed the wrecker on the rainswept beach staring into the depths for some sign from the belated ship. It was here that Ben Jolly adapted the slow, striking music to the progress of the story.

Suddenly the lone figure on the beach lifted his hands to his lips, formed into a human speaking trumpet.

The audience, rapt with the intensity of the incident, were breathlessly engrossed. They could anticipate his forlorn call amid that desolate scene.

And then something remarkable happened. Apparently from those moving lips, distant but clear—resonant and long-drawn-out—thrilling every soul in the audience with its naturalness and intensity, there sounded the words:

“Ship ahoy!”

CHAPTER XVI—A GRAND SUCCESS

He would not see that noble ship go to pieces on the rocks! He secured one end of the rope to the collar of the animal and made signs. The intelligent dog lifted his head. A joyous, willing bark rang out. It was real—like the call—like the whistle.

“Ginger!” exclaimed Pep Smith, in a stupefied way.

The dog disappeared. Then a dim light showed far out at sea and there sounded out the distant echo of the foghorn of a steamer. It was so familiar to the audience, so natural, that more than one among them probably lost himself and almost fancied he was standing on that lonely storm-lashed beach with the wrecker.

The film ran its course—the rope was carried by the faithful dog to the imperiled ship. A safety line was sent ashore. Passengers and crew were all saved and among them a beautiful young girl.

The last picture showed a lovely garden—the grounds of the home of the father of the rescued girl. She was reading a book in a vernal bower. The wrecker, her lover, appeared. Birds swayed among the blossoming branches of the trees. He spoke—she listened. Then, arm in arm, they walked slowly from the garden to the accompaniment of soft bird notes that filled the whole house with the most ravishing melody.

The lights came on amid furious and genuine applause. A delighted and excited old man jumped up on his chair and waved his hat, shouting:

“Three cheers for the best show on earth!”

“That was just famous.”

“Must be one of those new speaking pictures.”

“Oh, we must get all the folks to come to this delightful show!”

Pep’s heart beat proudly as the audience filed out and he overheard this encouraging praise. He could hardly contain himself. Then he noticed Ben Jolly beckoning to him and he glided over to the piano. Jolly’s face was one broad, delighted smile.

“How was it, Pep?” he inquired.

“No, what was it!” corrected Pep in a fluster, and then he noticed that the cornetist had remained seated—and he guessed something.

“Him?” he questioned.

“Correct!” replied Jolly. “Give Durham the tip. It’s Hal Vincent. Durham must have noticed the brilliant accompaniment to the films and I don’t want to get him rattled wondering what’s up.”

Pep had some difficulty in getting to the operator’s booth. A long line of people were in place at the doors and they came in with a rush as the room was emptied. Pep tapped and Frank told him to come in.

“Did you hear—did you notice it?” spoke Pep, excitedly.

“Why, of course,” replied Frank. “I couldn’t understand it at first, but I know it must be some professional imitator.”

“It was Mr. Vincent. He wore a false beard.”

“You don’t say so!” cried Frank.

“Yes, and he was the cornetist outside, too.” Pep went on.

“All a piece of Mr. Jolly’s work, I suppose?”

“Of course,” replied Pep. “When he got that message this afternoon Mr. Vincent was probably at the hotel. Then he arranged to surprise us.”

“It’s more than a surprise—it’s given tone and novelty to the whole entertainment.”

The routine of set duties prevented the boys from prolonging the conversation. Jolly had begun the intermission overture and the seats were filling up fast. A good many had remained from the first audience. It took little circulating among the benches for Pep to learn that “A Wrecker’s Romance,” with its realistic interpretation, was responsible for this.

There was not a break in the second show, but there was a great surprise for the boys when the third and last programme began. A good many who had been to the National had got around to the rival playhouse. Home-going crowds from the beach made a stop.

“Nearly fifty people turned away,” reported Randy, as Pep slipped out to have a word with him.

“There must have been over eight hundred admissions,” figured Pep.

“One thousand, one hundred and fifty exactly,” reported Randy.

“Why, say,” cried Pep, “at that rate we’re going to be rich!”

“Hey, young fellow,” hailed a man appearing at this moment—“I suppose there’s a free list for friends?”

“I should say so,” responded Pep, recognizing the workman at the National he had gotten so chummy with. “Step right in, although I’m afraid I can’t offer you a seat.”

“Crowded as that; eh?” spoke the man. “That’s fine.”

“How is it at the National?” asked Pep. “Do they keep busy?”

“Every seat taken, but then you know they gave away a lot of tickets. Why, say,” proceeded the man as they got inside, “I had no idea you could fix this place up so nifty.”

“I suppose they opened at the National before they were all ready?” suggested Pep, who was dreadfully curious about the proceedings of Peter Carrington and his friends.

“I should say they did! They had to use boards for seats and several of them split in two. The funniest thing, though, was when one of the private boxes broke down.”

“Say,” propounded Pep, “did they really build some private boxes?”

“They did, for a fact. They were no use and no ornament, and the fellow who bosses things—his name is Beavers—kicked big against it. Young Carrington would have it, though, so we hurried through the best we could to-day. We told him the floor wasn’t in and not to move the chairs about, but he got in there with some chums. First thing we knew one of them shifted his position, and the three of them went through the floor and landed sprawling on top of the piano. It was a sight, I tell you, and the audience roared.”

“Well, I declare!” spoke Jolly, an hour later, as he came to the front of the playhouse with Vincent. “The last entertainment over and I believe you could gather up enough to run another show.”

“It certainly looks like it,” added Frank.

The last audience had dispersed, but around and near the Wonderland a great many persons and groups loitered or strolled along leisurely. They were the late stayers about the beach, and had the lights been left on and the ticket office open many of them no doubt would have entered the playhouse.

“Enough is as good as a feast,” laughed Randy, hugging his tin cash box under his arm with great complacency. “It couldn’t have been better.”

“I guess we’ve hit it this time,” pronounced Pep, proudly.

“That isn’t always so hard to do at the start,” advised Hal Vincent. “It’s keeping it up that counts. You want to advertise now—new stunts, novelties, attractions.”

“Attractions!” cried Pep. “Can the best of them beat those cornet solos? Novelties! Why, those talking pictures will be the hit of the town.”

“You are a famous friend, Mr. Vincent,” spoke Frank, warmly.

“And ought to be a famous man,” supplemented Jolly, loyally. “He’s worth putting on a special programme, Durham.”

“I got through with my city lawsuit just in time,” explained Vincent. “Made quite a good settlement, too. First thing I did was to release my wardrobe and dummies from embargo. They are ready to ship to any point where I may find an engagement.”

“Then give your order for their delivery at Seaside Park forthwith, Mr. Vincent,” directed Frank, spontaneously. “I’ll risk saying that we can pay you what is fair for a month’s steady run at least.”

“Things seem to be building up right along the line; don’t they, Pep?” piped the piano player briskly, giving his favorite a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Oh!” cried Randy, “we’re going to find all kinds of fame and fortune at Seaside Park.”

“By—the—wild—sea—waaa-ves!” added the versatile Vincent, throwing his ventriloquist voice way off over the beach in a sing-song way that startled passers-by.