“Say,” propounded Pep, “did they really build some private boxes?”
“They did, for a fact. They were no use and no ornament, and the fellow who bosses things—his name is Beavers—kicked big against it. Young Carrington would have it, though, so we hurried through the best we could to-day. We told him the floor wasn’t in and not to move the chairs about, but he got in there with some chums. First thing we knew one of them shifted his position, and the three of them went through the floor and landed sprawling on top of the piano. It was a sight, I tell you, and the audience roared.”
“Well, I declare!” spoke Jolly, an hour later, as he came to the front of the playhouse with Vincent. “The last entertainment over and I believe you could gather up enough to run another show.”
“It certainly looks like it,” added Frank.
The last audience had dispersed, but around and near the Wonderland a great many persons and groups loitered or strolled along leisurely. They were the late stayers about the beach, and had the lights been left on and the ticket office open many of them no doubt would have entered the playhouse.
“Enough is as good as a feast,” laughed Randy, hugging his tin cash box under his arm with great complacency. “It couldn’t have been better.”
“I guess we’ve hit it this time,” pronounced Pep, proudly.
“That isn’t always so hard to do at the start,” advised Hal Vincent. “It’s keeping it up that counts. You want to advertise now—new stunts, novelties, attractions.”
“Attractions!” cried Pep. “Can the best of them beat those cornet solos? Novelties! Why, those talking pictures will be the hit of the town.”
“You are a famous friend, Mr. Vincent,” spoke Frank, warmly.