“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.”