“Put the brake on, Pep!” sang out Randy.

“What’s the trouble now?” inquired Ben Jolly. “Someone trying to kidnap you again?”

Frank, Randy and Jolly, on their way to see about their goods at the freight house, had scattered precipitately as a bounding figure turned a street corner and almost crashed into them.

“Glad I found you. Say, what did I tell you?” exclaimed the youthful sprinter. “You come with me and I’ll show you something that will open your eyes.”

“Later, Pep,” said Frank. “We are on our way to arrange for carting the traps from Fairlands up to the playhouse.”

“It won’t take a minute,” declared Pep. “It’s only a block or two away. Say, you’d better come. I’ll show you a sight that will set you thinking.”

“All right, we’ll give you five minutes, Pep,” said Frank indulgently.

“And don’t forget that I told you so!”

“Told us what?” interrogated Randy.

“You’ll find out in a minute.”

Pep piloted the group in his usual impetuous way. Quite a busy boardwalk diverged from the main boardwalk thoroughfare, and some minor stores and restaurants of the cheaper class occupied the first block.

About midway of the square was a vacant building, once a dime museum. Frank and his friends had noticed this in their search for a business location. It was off the main route of travel, however, and the building was old, ramshackly and set down from the street level, the lot lying in a depression in the ground so that one had to descend three steps to the entrance.

“There you are,” pronounced Pep in an impressive way. “What do you say to it?”

Frank, Randy and Ben Jolly came to a halt as they faced an electric sign running out from the front of the building.

“‘National,’” read Randy—“‘National’ what?”

“Photo playhouse,” asserted Pep.

“Do you know that?” challenged Jolly.

“I do. When I passed by a man who was wiring the sign told me that a big New York fellow and a Seaside Park party were going to open up next week.”

“The mischief!” exclaimed Randy, roused up.

“Say,” remarked Jolly, bristling up at this hint of rivalry, “we want to get busy.”

“Oh, it doesn’t alarm me,” spoke Frank. “In the first place it is off the mainly traveled route. Besides, the neighborhood is cheap and I would imagine they wouldn’t get more than a nickel.”

“It’s worth looking up—always keep track of what your competitors are doing,” advised Jolly.

“Why I say,” suddenly remarked Frank—“their sign is wrong.”

“How wrong?” questioned Randy, and then he added: “That’s so: ‘NATONAL.’ They’ve left out an I.”

“It’s so,” cried Pep, “maybe they bought some second hand letters and there wasn’t any I’s in the lot.”

“‘Big New York fellow,’” observed Jolly thoughtfully. “Wonder who he is? Maybe you stirred things up in the city, Durham, and started somebody on our trail.”

“Well, we must expect competition,” replied Frank. “It shan’t scare us.”

“No, we’ll stick to a first-class basis and be the leader,” declared Randy.

“You fellows go on,” spoke Pep. “I’ll sort of spy out the enemy’s country—hey?”

“I would like to know who is behind this ‘National’ with an I missing,” said Frank, and they turned about and resumed their way to the freight depot, leaving Pep to his own devices.

Pep was not afraid to venture anywhere or address anybody. He was inside the old building and had accosted the man he had seen outside within five minutes after his friends left him. The man knew all about the proposed extensive refitting of the old barn of a place, but did not know who was backing the new show outside of a big man from New York and a party with money at Seaside Park. Pep pumped him dry so far as the arrangements for the show were concerned.

“Hello, Pep,” hailed him just as he went outside again.

“That isn’t my name—it’s Pepperill,” retorted Pep, resenting the mistake and the familiarity. He was in a fiery mood just now, but as he recognized young Peter Carrington and noticed that he was headed for the building he had just left, Pep decided that he would lose nothing by using a little tact.

“Well, that’s all right,” observed Peter in his usual airy manner—“been into my show?”

“Your show?”

“That’s what,” and Peter poked his cap back on his head, stuck his thumbs in his armpits, and grinned at Pep in a patronizing sort of way.

“Oh, I see,” said Pep, “you’re the Seaside Park capitalist I heard about?”

“Did some one honest say that?” inquired Peter, his vanity immensely gratified. “Well, I have invested something—got a little money from my aunt, although she doesn’t know that I’ve gone into the show business. She’d be mad if she knew I was going to set up opposition to you fellows, for she likes you. Business is business, though. You fellows wouldn’t take me in and I had to get some other partners; didn’t I?”

“Who are your partners?” probed Pep innocently.

“Well, one of them is Greg Grayson. He’s from your town. You know him?”

“Slightly,” assented Pep, his lips drawing together grimly.

“A friend of his has invested something, too,” rambled on the effusive Peter. “Our mainstay, though, is a New York man. They say he’s ’way up in the moving picture line.”

“What is his name?” pressed Pep.

“Mr. John Beavers—ever hear of him?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“That’s because you’re new in the business,” declared Peter. “He says he’s the first man who ever started a moving picture show.”

“Also a capitalist, I suppose?” insinuated Pep.

“Well, he’s got a lot of investments that have tied up his ready cash, he says, but he will stand back of us if we need more money.”

“Well,” said Pep, “I must be moving on. The more the merrier, you know.”

“I must tell you,” hurried on Peter—“We’re going to have two private boxes in our show.”

“What for?”

“Oh, to make a hit. Friends, members of the press and all that—see? I say, Smith, I hope you’re going to exchange professional courtesies.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Pep.

“Complimentaries, and all that.”

“I don’t think we are going to have any complimentaries,” replied Pep. “Our space will be for sale; not to give away. That fellow run a photo playhouse!” snorted Pep wrath fully to himself, as he left the spot. “Why, he hasn’t got the gumption to run a peddler’s cart, or a shoestring stand!”

Pep reached the freight house just as his friends were leaving it. They had arranged for the reception and delivery of their traps from Fairlands to the new playhouse. This meant busy times, getting in order to open up for business. Pep told of his new discoveries as to the personnel of the rival firm of the “Natonal.” Randy flared up at once.

“It’s half spite work,” he declared. “This Peter is mad because we wouldn’t take him into our scheme and Greg Grayson owes us a grudge, or fancies he does, and wants to pay it back. He and his cronies were always ready for any mean mischief back at Fairlands.”

“Oh, well, as long as it is fair business rivalry, who cares?” submitted Jolly. “From the start they’ve made I don’t think they will last long.”

“They will do all they can to annoy us while they do,” declared Pep.

“Did you tell young Carrington about the missing letter in the ‘Natonal’ sign, Pep?” inquired Frank.

“No, I didn’t,” replied Pep, ungraciously. “Think I’m around mending his blunders? Humph! guess not. If I had, do you know what he would have said?”

“No; what, Pep?” pressed Randy, with a broad grin.

“He’d say: ‘Oh, yes, that’s so. Anybody can see it’s spelled wrong. Didn’t notice it before. Of course it should be “Natonel.”’”

All hands laughed at Pep’s sally. Then Frank asked:

“Did you ever hear of this John Beavers, Mr. Jolly?”

“Never did, Durham. I wonder where the crowd picked him up? Don’t think he’s a notable, though. Judging from the way he’s letting them hold the bag, I reckon he isn’t much of a capitalist.”

They emerged upon the boardwalk as Jolly concluded his remarks. Pep was the first to discover a commotion amid the crowds ahead.

“There’s some new excitement,” he cried. “Let’s hurry up and see what it is.”

Just then a man dashed through the throng on a dead run. In hot pursuit was a second individual, fast overtaking him and shouting as he sprinted:

“Stop that man!”