“Who’s the enemy, Mr. Vincent?” inquired Frank, quickly.

“Peter Carrington.”

“Pooh!” derided Randy.

“That doesn’t sound so dangerous,” declared Pep, lightly.

“Tell us about it, Hal,” urged Jolly.

“There isn’t a lot to tell,” replied Vincent. “Pep here was right about Carrington being bound on the same mission to the city as myself. I found him at the National Film Exchange in great fettle. He had just closed a deal for the flood film.”

“Then—then——” began Pep, in alarm.

“In his usual conspicuous and important way he had his check book out, fountain pen in hand, and ended up a grand flourish to his signature with a sort of triumphant grin at me as I entered the office.

“‘Too late, Mr. Man!’ he chuckled. ‘Thought maybe you would be after the king attraction of the season, so I hot-footed it here from the train. There you are, sir,’ and he handed the check to the cashier of the Exchange. ‘Just pack up that film and the posters. Building a big transparency advertising it. If I can catch an early train we’ll put it on to-night.’

“‘I cannot deliver the goods on this check, Mr. Carrington,’ said the cashier, politely but firmly.

“‘I’d like to know why you can’t!’ flared up Peter. ‘That check is good as gold, and my aunt has a little fortune in that same bank.’

“‘All right, get someone in New York to indorse it and you can have the goods,’ advised the cashier. ‘It’s no discrimination, Mr. Carrington. We make this a stringent rule with all out-of-town customers.’

“‘Why, if you doubt my word, telegraph the bank at Seaside Park,’ flustered Peter. ‘Say, I’ll do it myself. I’ll have the cash wired on, but I shall enter a protest and a complaint with your superiors.’

“‘That’s all right,’ smiled the cashier indifferently. ‘I’ll give you an hour to get the cash here. Only, remember we are likely to have other bids.’

“‘I am on hand to take a look at the proposition,’ I remarked just there. Peter nearly had a fit. Then he dived for the door. I found out that his figure was ninety-eight dollars for the week. I added two dollars. ‘Wait the hour,’ said the cashier.

“The hour was up and fifteen minutes over the limit when Peter rushed upon the scene once more,” narrated Vincent. “He pulled a big wad of bank notes out of his pocket. ‘Pack up that film,’ he ordered sourly, ‘and cancel all our other orders. I’m going to a new place where they won’t question my credit on a measly sum like ninety-eight dollars.’

“‘The film is sold for Seaside Park,’ explained the cashier. ‘The Wonderland has overbid you. You are overdue.’

“‘Hold on,’ I put in, ‘I don’t want to take advantage of a competitor. Fair and square, Carrington. If you want the film, bid for it.’

“‘Of course I’ll bid for it,’ boasted Peter. ‘I’ll give a hundred and five.’

“‘And ten,’ I said quietly.

“‘Fifteen.’

“‘And twenty,’ I added.

“‘Sho!’ said Peter, flipping over the bills in his hand. I haven’t much more ready cash here with me.‘

“‘I’ll loan you on your check,’ I told him and the bluff took. I had only the hundred and fifty you gave me, but I was nervy, and it beat Peter. I fancy Jack Beavers had set a limit, or the real money wasn’t flush at the National; anyhow with a snarl and a scowl Peter gritted his teeth at both of us and decamped.”

Late as the hour was the motion picture chums were so interested in the new film that they had to give it a trial run. It was all the lurid advertising claimed for it from start to finish, and it took thirty-five minutes to run it—the scenes depicted held the interest.

“It’s well worth the money,” declared Ben Jolly enthusiastically. “Now then, to exploit it to the limit.”

The transparency frame built for the National remained in place, but its muslin covering did not contain the announcement expected by Peter and his satellites. Even Hal Vincent, well as he knew Jack Beavers, was greatly surprised when he was told the next day that the space was devoted to booming a recent sparring match.

“It’s pretty bad taste,” he criticised. “It will take with a certain element, but it won’t help in getting the good people and the stayers.”

The flood film was widely advertised and put on that Thursday night. The posters made a fine show in the various store windows of the town. A private school came en masse to the first evening entertainment. A ladies’ charitable association, active in raising a fund for the flood sufferers, was among the audience Friday night.

“It’s a go,” voted Ben Jolly, as Randy reported over a hundred people turned away from the doors. “If I were you, Durham, I would wire the Exchange for a thirty days’ contract on that film.”

This was done. A big house was expected for Saturday night and it had been decided to run two matinees from three to five beginning Monday. This crowded a little but not to any noticeable discomfort.

Pep, always on the scent for information regarding their competitors, came in with a new bulletin at supper time.

“Things are getting sort of mixed down at the National, I hear,” he remarked.

“How’s that, Pep?” questioned Jolly.

“They had a rough crowd among the audience last night and there was a fight. Two women fainted and several had their pockets picked by some fellows from that new Midway they started last week outside of the concession belt.”

“I noticed Jack Beavers with a couple of hard-looking fellows yesterday afternoon down at the Midway,” said Vincent. “That won’t pay them, I can tell you.”

“If the rough crowd have begun their work at the National we may expect them to make the rounds,” said Jolly. “Keep a sharp eye out, Pep.”

“I’ll do just that,” was the prompt response.

As anticipated by the motion picture chums and their friends, the throngs that evening beat all records. Pep forgot to look for suspicious characters or trouble. Everything went smoothly up to the last show, when he noticed four swaggering fellows come in. They crowded their way to the front and made a noisy shuffling with their feet and talked loudly. A few minutes later a like group gained admittance and took seats among the rear rows of seats. There were cat calls and signals between the two groups and Pep scented trouble.

Vincent, who until he went on the programme the next week helped Pep to keep things in order, came up to his young friend just as the first film of the third series was being run off.

“I say, Pep,” he observed, “two of the fellows in that quartette in front there are the same fellows I saw with Jack Beavers. They look ripe for a demonstration.”

“You mean they may have been sent here to make trouble for us?”

“And rush the crowd in the hope of picking a few pockets—that is their general programme, yes.”

“I wish we could get one of the beach policemen to show himself,” said Pep. “That would scare them off. Those officers are friendly to us, but won’t make a move until a real row is on.”

“I think I can help out on this proposition,” remarked Vincent, and Pep noticed that he passed through the doorway leading to the living apartment, behind the main room.

When the lights came on for a moment between the first and second film Pep stared in blank surprise at a figure standing against the side wall. It was that of a police officer fully uniformed, even to the stout club usually carried. He was not ten feet away from the quartette that had made Pep so apprehensive.

“It’s Mr. Vincent,” guessed Pep—“good for him!”

The versatile ventriloquist it was. His extensive wardrobe had provided a disguise that cooled down the four unwelcome visitors from the start. Vincent stood like a statue where he had posted himself, as if on duty. When the lights went off he drew even nearer to the quartette, and they seemed to accept the fact that he was there for their benefit and that it would pay them to behave themselves.

Vincent was a good deal surprised when someone came close to him down the aisle next to the outer wall of the building. He was almost startled when the words were whispered in his ear:

“Officer, I want you to help me as soon as this film is over.”

“In what way?” inquired Vincent.

“The two men at the end of the front seats here—Midway crowd—I want them.”

“Want them?”

“Yes, I am an officer from the city—I’ll show you my credentials later. The two fellows I mention have led me a long hunt—it’s a burglary case.”

“What do you want me to do?” inquired Vincent.

“They will show fight, both of them, the minute their eyes light on me. You grab the second fellow. I’ll attend to the other one. Then send the usher out for more police help.”

“All right,” assented Vincent, “only do all this quietly as you can. We don’t want to hurt the reputation of the show by any rough work.”

“Oh, they’ll wilt when they see they’re cornered. Another word-whisper.”

“Yes?”

“Help me to do this job neatly and there’s a fine reward to divide.”