Ben Jolly it was, more sprightly, more jolly-looking than ever, for he waved his hand with a genial smile to the children staring down the side street after the whistler. The other reached into the wagon. Instantly upon recognizing their old-time friend and helper the three chums started in his direction.

“Hi, there!” hailed Pep, while Randy waved his hand gaily and all hurried their gait.

“Well! well!” exclaimed Jolly, his face an expanding smile of welcome, extending both hands and greeting his friends in turn. “I expected to find you here and headed for here, but I did not expect to run across you so oddly.”

“For mercy’s sake, Mr. Jolly,” burst forth Randy, staring in amazement at the wagon, “what in the world have you got there?”

“Why bird houses,” replied Jolly.

“Bird houses?” repeated Pep, equally bewildered. “What are you doing with such a lot of bird houses?”

“Selling them, of course.”

Frank himself was surprised and puzzled. The wagon contained half a dozen tiers of little box-like structures packed close. At one side was a heap of poles the size of display flag staffs. These poles were stout and heavy, painted white, and about twelve feet in length. The houses were about two feet high and as wide. They were painted white, like the poles, and were exact models of a broad, low colonial house, even to the veranda. The roof was painted red, there was an imitation chimney and a double open doorway in front trimmed with green. All around this miniature house were little apertures representing windows.

A neater, more inviting little bird house for a garden could not well be imagined. As Jolly took a sample from the wagon the little children flocked about him on tiptoe of curiosity. There were admiring “Oh’s!” and “Ah’s!” “Ain’t they cute!” “What cunning little houses!” and “Oh, mister! are they for sale?” “What do they cost?”

“If you will excuse me while I make a demonstration,” observed Jolly, “I’ll explain what it’s all about.”

“What a rare fellow he is!” remarked Randy to his companions, as they stepped aside.

“The same busy, happy, good-natured friend of everybody,” returned Frank, with genuine feeling.

If there was a being in the world the motion picture chums had reason to feel kindly toward it was this same Ben Jolly. A free wanderer, taking things easy, tramping flower-fringed country roads, making his way, willing to meet any task that came along, Ben Jolly had dropped into their life at the critical moment when they were discussing the prospects of their first motion picture show at Fairlands.

Ben had been a Jack-of-all-trades and knew a little something about pretty nearly everything. Particularly he knew a good deal about the movies. He gave the boys advice and suggestions that enabled them to buy their first outfit at a bargain and the day the show opened appeared with an old piano which he had induced a rich relative to buy. From that time on Ben Jolly furnished the music for the Wonderland photo playhouse and, as told in our first volume, was the means of unearthing a plot against the father of Frank Durham, whereby he had been swindled out of a small estate.

Jolly took a sample bird house under each arm and entered the first yard he came to, the interested children keeping him close company. He came out of the first house with only one bird house, he came out of the second with none. Along the block he visited on both sides of the street Jolly disposed of just eleven of the attractive little miniature domiciles, distributed poles later to each purchaser and rejoined the boys.

“Now, then,” he said, briskly, placing a little roll of banknotes in a well-filled wallet, “how are you and what are the prospects?”

“Excellent,” declared Randy. “See here, though, Mr. Jolly, will you kindly explain this new business of yours?”

“Simply a side line,” replied Jolly, in a gay, offhand manner.

“But where did you ever pick up that rig and that lot of odd truck?” challenged Pep.

“I picked up better than that,” retorted Jolly, cheerily. “I ran across the finest advance agent in the business—and here he comes. You knew him once, but under his stage name of Hal Pope. He’s Mr. Hal Vincent now.”

At that moment the whistler came into view, having circled the block. As he approached, Frank’s face expressed pleased surprise.

“Why,” exclaimed Pep, “it’s our friend the ventriloquist.”

“So it is,” echoed Randy.

“Glad to meet you again,” said Hal Vincent, and there was an all-around handshaking. “You’re all looking fine and I hear you’re prosperous.”

“Not so much so that we could afford to hire you for our programme at Fairlands, as we would like to do, Mr. Vincent,” replied Frank, with a smile.

Pep began to grin as he looked at Vincent, and the memory of their first meeting was reviewed. Then he chuckled and finally he broke out into a ringing guffaw.

“Thinking of my first and only appearance at that auction where you bought your movies outfit?” inquired Vincent, with a smile.

“Will we ever forget it?” cried Randy. “I tell you, Mr. Vincent, if you hadn’t made the auctioneer believe that two innocent bystanders were bidding against each other with your ventriloquism, and gained time until Frank arrived, we would never have gotten into the motion picture business.”

“It worked finely; didn’t it?” answered Vincent.

“I ran across Hal at Tresco, about thirty miles from here,” narrated Ben Jolly. “He was counting the ties in the direction of New York, having left the dummies he uses in his stunts on the stage for meals and lodging.”

“Yes, I was about all that was left of the Consolidated Popular Amusement Corporation,” put in Vincent. “I was glad to meet an old friend like Ben. He told me there was the shadow of a chance that you might start in at Seaside Park and wanted me to come along with him. Then we ran across the outfit here,” and the speaker nodded toward the wagon and its contents.

“That was my brilliant idea,” added Jolly. “I call it a rare stroke of luck, the way we ran across the outfit.”

“How?” projected Pep, vastly curious.

“Well, a carpenter in a little town we came through had got crippled. The doctor told him he wouldn’t get around without crutches for six months. He was a lively, industrious old fellow and couldn’t bear to be idle. Had a lot of waste lumber and worked it up into dog houses. There weren’t many dogs in the town, so his sale was limited. Then the bird house idea came along. The carpenter got the local paper to print a lot about the birds, the merry birds, that sing about our door——”

“That—sing—about—our—door!” echoed a slow, deep bass, apparently away up in a high tree near by, and the boys knew that their gifted ventriloquist friend was exercising his talents.

“The carpenter,” proceeded Jolly, “hired a lot of boys to go forth on his mission of kindness to our feathery songsters. The campaign went ahead until nearly everybody wanting a bird house got one. Our friend found himself with some two hundred of the little structures left on his hands. He had overstocked the market, with a big surplus left on his hands. When we came along it was a sign in front of his place that attracted our attention. It read: ‘These fine bird houses and a capable horse, wagon, and harness for sale for a mere song.’

“Anything odd always catches me, so I interviewed the old man. It seemed that he had received word only that day that a relative in another part of the country had left him a farm. He wanted to realize quick and he offered me the bird house outfit and the rig all for fifty dollars. I had only thirty-eight dollars, and he took that and gave me his new address. The arrangement was that if I was lucky in getting rid of the bird houses I was to send him the balance. If I didn’t he was willing to charge it up to profit and loss. He’ll get that balance,” announced Jolly, with a satisfied smile.

“It looks so, judging from your sales of the last half-hour,” remarked Frank.

“What do you get for the little houses, Mr. Jolly?” inquired Randy.

“A dollar apiece. I don’t sell them, though—not a bit of it,” exclaimed Ben Jolly, modestly. “It’s Hal. You ought to hear his whole repertoire—orioles, thrushes, mourning doves, nightingales, mocking birds. He infuses the neighborhood with the melody and I slide in with the practical goods. And that rig—remember the noise wagon at Fairlands, Pep Smith?”

“Do I?” cried Pep, in a gloating way—“I should say I did!”

The “noise wagon” had been introduced in connection with the photo playhouse at Fairlands and had become a novel institution with the inhabitants. A wagon enclosed with canvas, bearing announcements of existing and coming film features, was provided with a big bass drum, bells, huge board clappers and some horns—all operated by pedals under the driver’s feet.

“You see this new rig of mine would work in on the same basis here,” proceeded Jolly. “If not, I can get more for the outfit than I paid for it, anyway. Now then, Durham, where can we find you this evening?”

“Why not sooner?” suggested the impetuous Pep. “We’ve a great lot to tell you, Mr. Jolly.”

“And I’m anxious to hear it all,” declared Jolly, “but we’ve got our stock to get rid of. Nothing like keeping at it when you’ve made a good beginning; and this town starts out promising-like.”

Frank now decided that he would remain over at Seaside Park for another day at least. The appearance of Ben Jolly somehow infused all hands with renewed vim and cheerfulness. The chums were glad also to meet Hal Vincent. He had done them a big favor in the past and they realized that he could be of considerable advantage to them in the future in case they located at Seaside Park.

Vincent had the reputation of being an accomplished all-around entertainer. He was an expert ventriloquist and parlor magician, liked the boys and had told Frank on the occasion of their first meeting that he would be glad to go on their programme at any time for a very moderate compensation.

Ben Jolly burst in upon his young friends with his usual bustle and buoyancy about six o’clock that evening. He merrily chinked a pocket full of silver and was all ready for what might next come along, and eager to tackle it.

“Left Hal finishing one of the few full meals he has had since his show broke up,” reported Jolly. “Got rid of the last one of the bird houses—and, see here, Frank,” and the volatile speaker exhibited a comfortable-looking roll of bank notes. “That was a fine speculation, the way it turned out, and leaves me quite in funds. Now then, what’s the programme?”

Frank became serious at once and all the others as well. He told his loyal friend all about their plans and hopes. Jolly shook his head soberly when Frank produced some figures showing that the amount necessary to operate a new photo playhouse was beyond their ready means.

“I’ve got nearly one hundred dollars you are welcome to,” reported Jolly promptly, “but that’s about my limit. You see, when I got the money to buy that piano and the ‘noise wagon’ I practically sold my prospects for a last mess of pottage. I’m willing to pitch in and live ’most any way to give the new show a start, but when it comes to raising the extra five hundred dollars needed, I’m afraid I can’t help you much.”

Randy looked glum at this, and Pep was almost crying. Ben Jolly sat chewing a toothpick vigorously, his thinking cap on.

“Perhaps we had better give up the idea of coming to Seaside Park until we are a little stronger in a money way——” Frank had begun, when there was an interruption.

“Someone to see Mr. Frank Durham,” announced a bellboy, appearing in the open doorway.

Frank arose from his chair promptly and went out into the corridor.

“In the ladies’ parlor, sir,” added the bellboy, and Frank went down the stairs, wondering who this unexpected visitor could be.