“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?”