THE SPEAKING PICTURE
Pep was “on pins and needles” over the mysterious remark of Ben Jolly
as to “The Great Unknown.” His friend was good natured about the
matter, but parried all further questions. Then all hands at the new
Wonderland became absorbed in their respective duties as partners and
helpers in making the opening night of their venture a pronounced
success.
Randy could not resist the temptation of taking a run past the
National. He came back with his face on a broad grin.
“Well, Randy?” spoke Frank, expectantly.
“Carrington and his crowd are all business,” was the report. “I could
see Greg and another bustling about inside. Everything looks makeshift,
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.
“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.
“All right,” nodded Jolly, arising from his seat. “It’s not dark yet,
but I suppose we will have to shoot on the lights.”
The quartette started from the rear room in company, but Pep was making
for the front entrance as soon as Jolly moved towards the piano. He
came to a dead halt with a blank face as there sounded out, directly in
front of the place, a sharp, clear bugle call.
“Ahem!” observed Ben Jolly, with significant emphasis.
Frank and Randy stood stock still. They were both surprised and
entranced, for after that rollicking bugle call there rang out a
sweet home melody. Whoever was creating those gentle yet clear and
expressive notes was a master of the cornet. The hour, the scene were
in harmony with the liquid notes that gushed forth like golden beads
dropped into a crystal dish.
The wondering Pep, as if in a spell, moved noiselessly down the aisle
and looked out through a window. Standing at the extreme inner edge of
the walk was the cornetist. He wore a neat military costume. His close
bearded face made Pep think of photographs he had seen of the leader of
a noted military band. From every direction the crowds were gathering.
They blocked the walk and the beach beyond it. A hush showed the
appreciation of this enchanted audience until the tune was finished.
Then the air was filled with acclamations.
“Friend of mine--it’s all right. Thought I’d sort of offset that brass
band down at the National,” sang out Ben Jolly at the piano, and Pep
now knew what his reticent friend had “up his sleeve.” “All ready--here
she goes!”
A chorus of “Ah’s!” and “Oh’s!” swelled forth as the electric sign
and then the whole front of Wonderland burst into a glow of electric
radiance. Frank was into the sheet iron booth in a jiffy. Jolly sat
prim and precise at the piano. Randy was in place in the little ticket
office just as Pep threw open the front doors.
Pep tried to look and act dignified, and did very well, but he felt so
elated as the crowd poured in that he was all smiles and made everybody
feel at ease instead of awed. Wonderland could not have opened at a
more favorable moment. A better advertisement than the cornet solo
could not have been devised. The crowd attracted by the music lingered,
and most of them decided to take in the show.
Nearly every seat in the house was taken as Jolly began the overture.
As the electric bell announced the darkening of the room Pep had to
hunt for vacant chairs.
Pep was particularly attentive to the cornetist, who entered the
playhouse after giving a second tune on his instrument.
“Near the front, please,” he said to Pep, and he seemed satisfied as
the young usher found him a chair in the front row next to the curtain.
The first film was full of fun and laughter. The second was an airship
specialty and went off very well. The feature film of the series was
“A Wrecker’s Romance.” It had just enough sea flavor to catch with the
audience. There was a schooner caught in a storm that was lost in the
gathering fog after sending up a rocket as a signal of distress.
The next scene showed the wrecker on the rainswept beach staring into
the depths for some sign from the belated ship. It was here that Ben
Jolly adapted the slow, striking music to the progress of the story.
Suddenly the lone figure on the beach lifted his hands to his lips,
formed into a human speaking trumpet.
The audience, rapt with the intensity of the incident, were
breathlessly engrossed. They could anticipate his forlorn call amid
that desolate scene.
And then something remarkable happened. Apparently from those moving
lips, distant but clear--resonant and long-drawn-out--thrilling every
soul in the audience with its naturalness and intensity, there sounded
the words:
“Ship ahoy!”