Pep Smith was up before the birds that memorable opening day. Pep had gone through a like experience when the Wonderland motion picture show was started at his home town, but that was a small proposition compared to the present one. To Pep’s way of thinking the world was waiting for the great event. In his active mind he pictured eager hundreds counting the slow hours of the day until the first films were flashed upon the screen of the new photo playhouse.

Pep bustled about, broke into whistling and stirred things up so generally that he finally woke Ben Jolly. The latter was quite as interested as Pep in the doings of the day, only he concealed the true state of his feelings. He set about making preparations for breakfast as an excuse for rousing Frank and Randy.

“Well, Pep, this is the big day of our lives; eh?” propounded the good-natured cook, while his accommodating assistant was setting the table.

“And the finest ever seen,” replied Pep. “I never saw such a daybreak. It’s going to be just warm enough to make people want to stay out for the evening breeze, and that means crowds passing our place until late.”

It was a jolly quartette that sat down at the table about five o’clock. The rest over Sunday had done them all good. No details had been left to chance or haste. Much satisfaction was felt in the knowledge that all the work thus far had been done well, with no loose ends to bother about when the programme began.

“There’s some song posters to put up—they are due in the morning mail,” observed Randy.

“Yes, and if that new film winder is sent along we might install it in place of the old one we brought from Fairlands,” suggested Jolly. “I suppose you want to go through a test before night, Durham?”

“So as to give you the music cues? I think we had better,” assented Frank. “Besides, we had better see that the films run smooth.”

“I sent for a piano-tuning key to the city Saturday,” said Jolly. “As soon as I get it I will give the instrument a little overhauling. Jolting over one hundred miles in a freight car doesn’t improve the tone any.”

Randy and Pep went out together about ten o’clock to get some posters from the printers. Frank had brought from the city quite a lot of gaily colored sheets with a blank space left at the top. Here the name and location of the new playhouse had been inserted. It took the boys until noon to get these placed. They posted them in nearly all the stores along the boardwalk. The hotel they had stayed at let them put two in the lobby, and they covered the town in a way satisfactory to themselves.

“Wonder what the National people are thinking of doing?” submitted Randy, as they sat down to dinner.

“They are going to open to-night—that’s one thing I know,” reported Pep.

“They’re not making much stir about it, then,” observed Jolly. “I haven’t heard anybody speak about it, whom I ran across to-day.”

“I met the man who is doing their electrical work,” said Pep. “He and I are quite chummy. He told me they were in a fearful mix-up, with things half provided for, but that they would surely open this evening.”

“What’s it to be—a nickel?” inquired Jolly.

“No a dime, he says; but he showed me a bunch of complimentaries and laughed and said he’d sell them cheap. I haven’t set my eyes on that Peter and the fellow from Fairlands anywhere around town, but I guess they’re pitching in with the workman to get things in order.”

Wednesday of the week previous a neat postal card telling of the new photo playhouse had been sent out to every name in the little local directory of Seaside Park. The hotel men had taken a bunch of these and had agreed to put one in the mail of each guest. The local paper happened to be an exchange of the Fairlands weekly, and the editor of the latter had given Frank a letter of introduction to the Seaside Park publisher. As a result, the latter had copied the article about the chums from the home paper and had also given a glowing description of the new playhouse on the beach.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when the lively Pep came into the playhouse with a new excitement on his mind.

“Say, fellows,” he announced, “we’re clear beat out.”

“Hi! what’s up now?” asked Ben Jolly.

“The National without an I has got us going. Just met Peter Carrington. He’s jumping around like a chicken on a hot griddle. Just had time to flash by me and crow out, ‘Watch out for our grand free concert to-night.’”

“Is that so—hum!” observed Jolly, musingly. “I wish I’d thought of that. I suppose we ought to make some little noise the opening night. Too late to arrange for it now, though. Just in time for practice, Pep. Put on that best coat of yours and a flower in your buttonhole, and usher in imaginary thousands, while Powell piles up uncounted dimes in the ticket office and Durham shoots the films. Ready—go!” and with a crash of the piano keys the volatile fellow began a lively overture.

“A small but critical audience pronounced the rehearsal A.1.,” declared Jolly with a thrilling sweep of the piano keys as the three films were reeled off from the operator’s booth. “Slow on that last picture, though, Durham. It’s a good one and any audience will be glad to see it prolonged.”

“Yes, being an ocean scene, I should think ‘A Wrecker’s Romance’ would take great with the smell of real salt water blowing right into the playhouse,” submitted Randy.

“Where the old wrecker hails the ship in the fog I want to work in some slow, solemn music,” proceeded Jolly. “Eh? What’s that? Mr. Jolly? That’s me. What is it, lad?”

A messenger boy from the hotel had appeared at the entrance to the playhouse and asked for Mr. Benjamin Jolly. He delivered a note to that individual. The latter read it, his face breaking into a delighted smile.

“Say, my friends,” he announced, seizing his hat and rushing unceremoniously from their company, “rush call, important though unexpected. Back soon,” and Jolly chuckled and waved his hand gaily.

He was all smiles and still chuckling when he returned, which was in about an hour. They had decided on an early supper so as to have plenty of leisure to look over things before the playhouse opened, at half past six o’clock. As a starter, they planned to give three entertainments, each beginning on the hour.

“You seem to feel pretty good, Mr. Jolly?” observed Randy, as they dispatched the appetizing meal, their helpful friend brimming over with comical sayings.

“Oh, I’ve got to live up to my name, you know,” explained Jolly. “Besides, always dreaming, you see. Been dreaming this afternoon of big houses, delighted throngs, pleasant surprises,” and the speaker emphasized the last word, looking mysterious the while.

Frank and Randy, full of the theme of the hour and its practical demands upon their abilities, did not notice this particularly. Pep, however, eyed Jolly keenly. He lingered as his chums got up from the table. Somehow the exaggerated jollity of their lively pianist, to Pep’s way of thinking, was connected with the mysterious message he had received earlier in the afternoon. Pep was an unusually observant lad. He was furthermore given to indulging a very lively fancy.

Now he went up to Jolly. Very searchingly he fixed his eye upon the piano player. Very solemnly he picked up one of Jolly’s hands and looked up the arm of his coat.

“Hello!” challenged Jolly—“what you up to now, you young skeesicks?”

“Oh, nothing,” retorted Pep—“just thought I’d like to see what you’ve got up your sleeve, as the saying goes.”

“Ah,” smiled Jolly—“suspect something; do you?”

“Got a right to; haven’t I?” questioned Pep, shrewdly.

“Well,” retorted Jolly, slowly, stroking his chin in a reflective way, “I won’t say—just now. I’ll give you a tip, though, Pep.”

“Yes?” cried Pep, expectantly.

“About six-thirty look out for something.”

“What will it be, now?” projected Pep, eagerly.

“The Great Unknown,” replied Ben Jolly, with an enigmatical smile.