Frank made it a point to interview several owners of concessions along the beach. Those with whom he talked had attractions vastly inferior to the one the chums designed to operate, but the boys picked up many a suggestion and useful hint. It was shortly before noon when they sat down to rest under a tree in that part of the town given over to permanent residences and summer cottages. They began talking over the ever-present theme of their photo playhouse when there was an interruption.
Down the street there strolled leisurely a young man who made it a point to halt whenever he got in front of a house. There he would linger and begin a series of whistling exploits that made the air vibrate with the most ravishing melody.
“Say, just listen to that!” exclaimed Pep, in a pleased tone.
“It’s one of those trick whistles,” declared Randy.
“Then it’s an extra fine one,” said Pep.
“I think you are mistaken, boys,” suggested Frank. “Those are real human notes—at least almost exact human imitations of bird tones.”
“Well, then, the fellow must have a throat like a nightingale,” asserted the enthusiastic Pep.
The active whistler deserved all the chums said about him. His repertoire seemed exhaustless. He confined himself to imitations of birds exclusively—and of only such birds as were native to the surrounding country.
He fairly filled the air with melody, and real birds in the trees and shrubbery about the handsome residences of the locality twittered, hopped about and responded in an echoing chorus to his expert call.
Little children came running out of yards to gaze in wonder and admiration at this unusual warbler. Even older folks watched and listened to him. The man turned a corner out of view of the motion picture chums, followed by quite a procession.