would hear from him on the morrow.

“Frank,” exclaimed Pep, “it seems good to get rid of that fellow.”

“A fine partner he’d make,” observed Randy, with a snort.

“I am dreadfully sorry he overheard our plans,” spoke Frank. “Of course it will soon be generally known if we decide to locate here; but this Peter may talk a lot of rubbish that might hurt us or start somebody else on our idea.”

“And to think of his knowing Greg Grayson, and playing him off on us as a recommendation!” cried Pep.

“They make a good pair,” added Randy. “Why, I’d give up the whole business before I would have either of them connected with our plans in any way.”

“I wouldn’t wonder if Mr. Jolly might happen along if we stay here a day or two longer,” remarked Frank. “You know he was the first to suggest a look at Seaside Park with a view to business.”

“That’s so,” said Randy. “Did you write to him, Frank?”

“Yes. You know when we closed up at Fairlands he said he would take a day or two visiting some relatives and looking over the movies business in the city.”

“Ben Jolly told me he wasn’t going to stay idle all summer. Nor let us do it, either,” observed Pep. “He’ll have something fresh to tell us when we see him.”

“Well, when we left Fairlands I sent him a few lines telling him that we were going to look over the field here,” said Frank. “That is why I think he may drop in on us.”

“I wish he would,” declared Randy. “Mr. Jolly knows so much about the business. What’s the programme for to-morrow, Frank?”

“Why, I thought we would find out what it will cost us to move our traps here from Fairlands, the amount of the license fee for the show, the cost of a lot of electric wiring and current we will need if we locate at Seaside Park, how much it will cost us to live, and a lot of such details.”

The boys had a wonderfully refreshing sleep in that high room pervaded with cool ocean breezes, and got up fully an hour later than they had planned. After Peter Carrington had left them the evening before they had strolled down the beach about nine o’clock to get an idea of the evening crowds. This filled them more than ever with ardor as to their prospective business undertaking.

“I say,” Randy had observed, “don’t you see, Frank, there aren’t enough amusements to go around?”

“Yes,” Frank had assented, “the crowds seem just in trim for some lively entertainment.”

The chums dispatched a substantial breakfast at the restaurant. Then they started out on their second day’s investigation of conditions and prospects at Seaside Park.

Frank made it a point to interview several owners of concessions along the beach. Those with whom he talked had attractions vastly inferior to the one the chums designed to operate, but the boys picked up many a suggestion and useful hint. It was shortly before noon when they sat down to rest under a tree in that part of the town given over to permanent residences and summer cottages. They began talking over the ever-present theme of their photo playhouse when there was an interruption.

Down the street there strolled leisurely a young man who made it a point to halt whenever he got in front of a house. There he would linger and begin a series of whistling exploits that made the air vibrate with the most ravishing melody.

“Say, just listen to that!” exclaimed Pep, in a pleased tone.

“It’s one of those trick whistles,” declared Randy.

“Then it’s an extra fine one,” said Pep.

“I think you are mistaken, boys,” suggested Frank. “Those are real human notes—at least almost exact human imitations of bird tones.”

“Well, then, the fellow must have a throat like a nightingale,” asserted the enthusiastic Pep.

The active whistler deserved all the chums said about him. His repertoire seemed exhaustless. He confined himself to imitations of birds exclusively—and of only such birds as were native to the surrounding country.

He fairly filled the air with melody, and real birds in the trees and shrubbery about the handsome residences of the locality twittered, hopped about and responded in an echoing chorus to his expert call.

Little children came running out of yards to gaze in wonder and admiration at this unusual warbler. Even older folks watched and listened to him. The man turned a corner out of view of the motion picture chums, followed by quite a procession.

He had scarcely vanished before a high wagon such as is used to carry cooper’s barrels turned slowly into the street. A slow old horse pulled it along. Its driver nimbly leaped from his seat. The moment he called out “Whoa!” to the horse and turned his face toward the chums, Pep Smith uttered a great shout.

“Why, fellows, see,” he cried, in mingled glee and surprise—“it’s Ben Jolly!”