The rain ceased falling at midnight. The moon emerged from behind a bank
of sombre clouds and threw a silvery radiance over the weird and
wonderful architecture of Jollyland. Dozens of the concessionaires and
their employees who elected to live in the park throughout the summer
and who had been penned in all day by the downpour came out for a breath
of air and a stroll along the broad esplanade. Among them was Signor
Antonio Amado, who sauntered out of his living quarters smoking a long
cheroot and smiling a wicked smile. He was still inwardly chuckling at
the success of his little plot and he had consumed a most particular
bottle of a most particular wine in proper celebration of his
achievement. The Signor’s attention was attracted by a conversation
between two of the special night watchmen who were chatting in front of
the tortuous roller coaster known as the Belvidere Bend. He slipped into
a shadow to listen.
“Did he give you orders not to say a word?” one of the men was saying.
“He did that!” replied the other. “Shure it’s tryin’ hard they are to
keep the thing out of the papers. They’re afraid it’ll put the place on
the blink, and faith, I think they’re right. It’s mesel’ that won’t be
breathin’ a word of it to a livin’ soul from now to the risin’ of the
judgment dawn.”
The Signor tip-toed noiselessly around a corner and disappeared in the
direction of his concession. Three minutes later he was talking to the
World on his private telephone and trying to make a tired operator
understand what he was saying.
“I havea de news,” he shouted, “de beega news—de damned beega news—de
beega, besta news you ever hear—Who? Wella givea me data man
McCart’—Hello, eesa dat McCart’?... Say, McCart’, deesa eesa Signor
Antonio Amado who maka de lions jumpa—eh?—I say I maka de lions jumpa at
Jollyland,—well, meester, deres one beega time down at Jollyland
tonighta—one beega time—dey eesa try to keepa it outa de papers—but I
tella you—deesa wilda men from de South Seas dey raisa hella—dey hava
beega fight—dey—what you say? Seet on a tack?—I no seet on a
tack—hello—hello.”
But only echo answered. McCarthy had hung up. The Signor swore a large,
round, succulent oath and went to bed.
* * * * *
Jimmy was at his office at the customary hour the next morning. He
hadn’t slept all night and he was dog-tired, but his soul was filled
with satisfaction. His ruse had worked. Not a single paper had carried a
line about the fracas. He had taxied over to Manhattan and had kept
vigil along Park Row until the final editions appeared. Then he had
chartered a touring car and had taken a long ride along the Long Island
roads until it was time for him to report for duty. He found McClintock
on the job already. The manager was in a jubilant mood.
“Well,” remarked the latter cordially, “you stood the test, all right.
I’ve got to give you credit. I didn’t think you’d get away with it, to
tell you the gospel truth. Pretty decent bunch after all, I guess. Did
any of ’em put up much of an argument?”
“Any of who?” inquired Jimmy.
“Why the city editors, of course. You saw ’em all personally, didn’t
you?”
Jimmy smiled a little guiltily, coughed nervously and then laughed
quietly.
“I might as well confess, Mr. McClintock,” he said finally. “I didn’t
see any of ’em. I tried out a new scheme and it worked like a little old
Liberty motor. I figured that the story was altogether too good to keep
out by any personal visit and I was afraid, anyway, that if any of the
papers hadn’t been tipped off my going in with an argument would start
’em out hot-foot after the yarn. So I wrote it and sent it out myself.”
“You sent it out yourself!” gasped McClintock. “I don’t get you. Slip me
a blueprint.”
“I took a big chance and I got away with it,” replied Jimmy. “I knew
that there isn’t a chance any more of anything that a press agent writes
gettin’ into the news columns of a New York paper. They’ve been shy on
that kind of stuff for a great many years. So I said to myself that if I
wrote out this yarn like as if I was some kind of a rank amateur,
dressin’ it up with a lot of flossy adjectives and makin’ it read so
that it sounded like a foolish pipe-dream they’d size it up as pure fake
and throw it in the little old waste-basket. Then if any reporter or
anyone else _did_ shoot in a tip on the story they’d figure out someone
had been tryin’ to bunk _him_ too, and would pass it up. I made it good
and strong, and it looks like they fell for it hook, line and sinker.
And say, I know somethin’ I never knew before. If I ever lose out in
this game I can get a job writin’ a series for the Boy’s Nickle
Library.”
McClintock patted him affectionately on the back.
“All I’ve got to say, Jimmy,” he remarked enthusiastically, “is that
you’re a great little press agent.”
“I’m a great little sup-press agent, you mean,” responded the other with
a grin.
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