“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.