Owing to the fact that the Wilbur garage was newly painted, the meeting was held in the Blake yard beneath the friendly, though of late neglected, apple tree. Perched upon one of the lower limbs, Ned called the meeting to order, and Treasurer Beals from his soap-box submitted his report which showed after payment of all outstanding accounts a gratifying balance.
“We were going good, but I guess the game’s up,” concluded Tommy, gloomily.
“Yes, the Demon Dance bubble is busted,” agreed Rogers. “The Ghost of Copper Coleson is laid, and the phantom stuff was really about all that we had to offer.”
“But we’ve paid the rent on the old shebang right up to October,” grumbled Dick Somers. “We’ve got to make some use of it, or else admit we’re licked!”
“That’s just what we’re here to decide,” declared Ned. “Instead of quitting, I believe we’ll go bigger than ever!”
“Do you mean we’ll keep on with the dances?” asked Jim Tapley.
“I can’t see why not,” replied Ned. “All we need is some attraction to keep the crowd coming and this raid has given us a lot of advertising. Judging from the talk that’s going round I’d say that everybody wants to see where and how the thing happened. My idea would be to make ’em pay for what they learn. We can sell dance-tickets to include a walk across the canvas track and through the cellar into the mine.”
“Swell idea,” agreed Wilbur, “only we ought to run the dances twice a week while the interest lasts. D’j’ever hear about ‘making hay while the sun shines’?”
“Great!” applauded Rogers. “Fatty, it’s up to you to get out some new posters advertising semi-weekly dances at the Rum-Runners Retreat.”
“That’s the idea!” chuckled Dick. “We’ll get a new crank for the winch and charge half a dollar for a ride on the dump-car down the tunnel. That’ll be a swell job for Weary!”