“Quite a crowd strolling by as if hanging around just waiting to get into the show.
“Dozen children in line waiting to buy tickets.
“Looks to me as if the people are heading from the beach in this direction. Hope we’ll be able to handle the crowds.
“Say, Frank, it’s twenty minutes after six.”
“The crowds will keep, Pep,” said Frank with a smile. “We’ve got to follow up a system, you know.”
“For mercy’s sake, what is that!” shouted Randy, suddenly.
There had swept in through the open windows upon the evening breeze a strange—a startling—series of sounds: “Ump! Ump!” “Bla-aat bla-aat,” “Flar-op, flar-op,” “Tootle-tootle”—a dismal melody filled the room, half notes, a mixture of notes, some of sledge hammer force, some weak and squeaking.
“Oh, hold me!” cried Randy, going into convulsions of laughter—“it’s that Little German Band.”
This seemed true, for they could trace the source of the music after a moment or two. They proceeded from the neighborhood of their business rival. How they might sound directly at their source it was difficult to surmise. Arising from the hollow in which the National was located, they lacked all acoustic qualities, like a band playing into a funnel.
“Twenty-seven minutes and a half after six,” declared Pep abruptly.